


Silent Dream

by RobertGrey



Series: Unholy Runaway [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Fictional, Humor, Literature, Occult, Spiritual, prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 22:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10863579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobertGrey/pseuds/RobertGrey
Summary: The second instalment of the Unholy Runaway series, the 'Silent Dream' takes place a few months after the events of 'Paper and Fire, Angel and Liar', where a young man and his demonic companion prepare to celebrate Christmas. Not all is well of course, as the two have to go a long way, before they learn to trust each other.





	Silent Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Foreword  
> This novel turned out way more romantic than originally intended; that is, if romance is not your cup of tea, don't read this. As a little kid, I always was a little disappointed about stories ending with "happily ever after" without actually telling us, what happened next. So I tried to break the rule, just a little, and here's what came out. Can't say it is bad, but definitely quite soppy; consider this to be a "Christmas Special" of the series.  
> All the best to you, dear reader.  
> If you got any questions, I'll be happy to answer them, my e-mail: megadosmot@gmail.com  
> R. Grey

“Why do I have to carry these bags?” whined Pixie, slouching visibly.

“You want your share of Christmas dinner? Real food and all?” Peter inquired, while looking at his shopping list, “Then you can at least help with things…”

“I’d like to see you smuggling an extra Christmas meal to the balcony,” she put in, her voice tinted with reproach just a little bit, “It’s not like I’m getting invited to the table.”

Peter turned back to look at his and Pixie’s bags, and didn’t reply; his lips moving as he was reading the list and checking what they got already.

“You know, in movies, they never explain supernatural stuff to people, but I’m sure they would understand, if you tried,” Pixie said.

Peter looked up from the list, his face serious.

“You want me to explain to mom and dad what you are?” he asked, furrowing his brows, “Just so you can have a good dinner?”

“Well hey, I can be of huge help, if I’m allowed to do stuff,” she reasoned, lowering her stare and shuffling her feet.

“That will work out just fine, oh yes,” Peter snorted, and continued sarcastically, “Hey mom, hey dad, this is the demon that is bound to take my soul sooner or later; why did I sell my soul? Well, because I was bloody stupid in another space-time, and oh yes, I forgot, not only is she a demon, but I’m also your son from the future. A mind of twenty four year old in a body of sixteen-year old. And don’t forget to pack me a couple good books when you send me to the special institution for mentally ill people. What else could I wish for? Ah, yes, Merry Christmas!”

She said nothing. To a casual observer they were just two teenagers arguing over the list of things to buy, standing in the middle of the mall, next to an escalator.

“What can you do, actually?” Peter queried after a pause.

“Nothing really,” she replied, not looking at him, “Thousands of years just passed me by and I didn’t pick anything up.”

He knew that to be untrue, and came closer.

“Cooking, cleaning, decorating – even in hard-to-reach places,” she finally said, still refusing to face him.

“Fine, we’ll think of something,” Peter surrendered, “Don’t be mad. But not the truth, for mercy’s sake!”

“Really?” she turned back, her eyes gleaming with hopeful joy.

“Why not, you have every right to enjoy the celebration you’re helping to prepare,” he shrugged, and looked at the list again, “Now, fruits! For punch we need cherries, pineapple, orange and lemons, and some apples for the pie.”

“We’d better take sour apples with best flavor, the sugar in the pie should compensate for it,” Pixie put in, but her thoughts were elsewhere, “Did he say he is in the body of a sixteen years-old? I definitely remember him being fifteen…”

And they continued shopping, adding more and more stuff to the already heavy bags.

“You sure cherries will be alright? Christmas is four days from now after all,” Pixie raised an eyebrow at him.

“Hm-m-m… If we put them in the fridge maybe?” Peter asked with innocent, child-like belief that you can put anything in the fridge to keep it from spoiling.

“Well, I don’t have much experience with fridges,” she replied, thoughtful, “But I’m pretty sure you would ruin them if you put them in a freezer.”

“Decided, fridge, no freezer,” he filled a small polyethylene bag full of cherries.

She couldn’t help thinking it over and over again.

“What do you think? Less and more expensive, or more and cheaper?” Peter weighed two cans of sweet corn in each hand, unable to decide.

“That one has better aura,” she pointed at the expensive one, and asked as nonchalantly as she could, “When was your birthday, by the way?”

Peter gave a blank stare.

“What?” he said, still holding cans in both his hands.

“You said ‘in a body of a sixteen-year old’, but you were fifteen when you went to high school, after we signed the contract,” she explained, “So I assume I somehow missed the day…”

“This is irrelevant,” Peter dropped, turned away and put the big can back on the shelf.

“So this special day had passed, and I never even knew,” she concluded.

“Doesn’t matter,” Peter waved a hand, and pushed the cart down the aisle, leaving her no option but to trail after him.

He was impervious to further prodding on the subject, no matter how she tried, and she finally gave up, at least for now.

“I’ve been thinking…” he mused, looking at the assortment of Christmas cards, “What if we say your ‘parents’ are on a business trip in another country, and you’re all alone at home?”

“That would be like I’m imposing,” Pixie replied offering him a cute set of cards with an owl, “Maybe I’m an exchange student and it’s your idea to invite me?”

“Yeah, come to think of it, we forgot to break up,” Peter chuckled, examining the cards, “But not an exchange student or they would start asking questions about where are you from. Let’s say you’re from another city…”

“Works for me,” Pixie nodded, “You wanna buy some extra Christmas lights? I can decorate the roof real easy, real fast. Without anyone risking breaking their neck.”

“We don’t have a nail gun for that,” Peter said, putting the cards back on the rack.

“I won’t need one,” she took a can of peas out of the cart, looked around to make sure nobody sees her, and pressed it to the nearby wall, while doing some complex gesture with the other hand, a strange blue glow emanating from it for just a second, and gone the next.

“Try it,” she offered, removing her hands from the can, which stuck to the wall. Peter obeyed and grabbed it with one hand and tried to pull. It was stuck firm. He grabbed the can with his other hand, but the tin didn’t move even a tenth of an inch.

“How’d you do that?” he asked standing back, clearly impressed.

“A simple binding spell, nothing to it really,” Pixie explained casually, going through same manipulations, and throwing the can of peas back into their pushcart.

“Ha-ha-ha, who’d know,” they heard a voice behind.

They looked back, only to see a strange figure approaching. “Shopping together, eh?” Maximilian Lewis waved at them, “Look what I got!”

They looked. His shopping cart was full of different kinds of… shampoo?

“Eh, that’s nice, I guess?” Peter ventured, “Keep your head clean?”

Maximilian made a face and waved a hand in his direction, as if Peter was a lost cause. “Who in their sane mind would need so much of the stuff just to keep their head clean?” Max commented.

“More of your crazy stuff? Need bubbles?” Pixie made a guess.

“There’s a bright mind! No wonder he picked you,” Maximilian nodded in Peter’s direction.

“Wha-?” Peter opened his mouth, and looked at them both.

“We just met here accidently,” Pixie lied.

“Yeah,” Maximilian nodded, “And you were walking together ever since? For over an hour now? And I’m pretty sure I’ve seen you,” he pointed an accusing finger at Peter, “Put stuff you bought in the bags she’s carrying.” Maximilian was crazy, but he wasn’t dumb, and their expressions were more than enough for him to raise his hands in a surrendering gesture, “It’s none of my business, but you were so preoccupied with each other, that you didn’t spot me shadowing you for such a long time. Kinda makes one stop and think, know what I’m sayin’?”

He pushed his cart in general direction of exit, leaving them confused and avoiding each other’s gaze. Peter scratched the back of his head, and decided to break the awkward silence.

“You noticed it too?” he asked and coughed.

“I’ve never seen anyone do something like that with…” she managed, “It’s either I don’t know something about humans or wearing a necklace made out of heads of toy Santa Clauses is really… disturbing.”

#

“Mom, we’re home,” Peter announced, removing his shoes, giving a meaningful glare to Pixie, who in turn just clicked her fingers, and her dirty shoes disappeared from her feet.

“We? Is there someone with you?” he heard her voice from kitchen.

“It’s Beatrice,” he said, entering the kitchen.

“And I thought, how are you planning to buy so much stuff in one go,” she replied, blew on some hot stuff in a big iron spoon, tried it and nodded approvingly to herself, “She’s a nice girl.”

“Yeah, that’s what I wanted to talk about,” Peter started, but she turned to him, a smile of a different kind than her usual one on her face. A knowing smile.

“It’s fine.”

“Um, what?” he said, “I didn’t ask anything yet.”

“You want to invite her over for Christmas, is that not so?” she raised an eyebrow.

“But how did…”

“Oh, please, Peter,” she rolled her eyes, “Christmas is that time of the year we want to spend together with people who mean something for us,” she raised a hand, “Let me finish. I won’t pretend I know what’s going on between you two, but I damn well know one thing. It’s being there that counts, when other people need you. And sharing the happy moments is equally important as supporting each other in hard times.”

She came closer and put a hand on his chin, raising it gently so he looked at her.

“I mean look at me,” she told him, “I know for a fact that I’m far from supermodel material.”

“C’mon mom, you’re great,” Peter started, but she hit him lightly with a spoon on the top of his head.

“Undue flattery does you no credit,” she tried to scold him, but almost burst laughing mid sentence, and continued, “Besides, I was trying to make a point.”

“Uh?” he rubbed at the spot, if only to flatten his hair a little.

“I would have no chance against prettier and smarter girls,” she said, unusually thoughtful, “If I weren’t there all the time for your dad. I have deepest respect for him, but when he chose me, I felt like the queen of the world...” her expression changed to a dreamy one.

Loud hissing brought her back, as some oily liquid raised the lid slightly and started to pour out of the pot on the oven, filling the kitchen with a smell similar to that of burnt hair.

“Ah, I forgot about it!” she turned back to it, quickly removing the lid, and stirring the contents, but as Peter was about to sneak away, she said, “Hold it right there! Your lecture is not over.”

“I don’t remember signing up for one,” Peter made a remark.

“You’re getting what you want just like that,” she reminded him, “It will do you some good to listen to what I have to say.”

The stuff in the pot seemed to settle down. His mom didn’t turn to face him, but the tone changed. “Just don’t play games with her. Women tend to overthink things. You give a girl a flower, and she already imagines what her wedding would be like. That is, if she likes you.”

“Eh?” Peter made a sound, “Where did that come from?” Somehow, the conversation went in a different direction than he expected.

“Hope can be a terrible thing, young man,” she turned to face him with a very serious expression, “It can do a lot of good things; it can drive whole nations, but it has a tendency to break people who rely on it too much.”

“I don’t really understand,” he began.

“Oh, okay, let me explain in lamest terms then,” she sat down near the table and gestured for him to sit as well.

“See, it’s simple really,” she explained, “A boy invites a girl over for Christmas. Innocent enough, right?” he nodded, and she slammed the table with her palm, “Wrong! Girl starts thinking that it all means something. That he likes her, maybe even has plans. She entertains a hope, even if it’s just a small passing thought – it (hope) puts hooks deep in person’s soul.” Peter nodded, digesting the information, although he failed to see how that would apply to demons.

“So?” he ventured.

“Can’t you see? If at some point in time, maybe much later, you realize you didn’t really like her, and break up with her…” she spoke very seriously, “The little hooks would leave bloody marks. In other words, hurt her feelings.”

“There goes my breakup with Pixie,” Peter thought, “If we do, I end up being a monster and a public disgrace.”

“I understand,” he offered as his exit ticket.

“Good boy, now go, I kept you here long enough,” she got up and went to the oven again, “She’s probably bored without you. Tell her I said hello.”

He went to his room.

“Please tell me you didn’t hear that,” he pleaded.

“I put my fingers in my ears and started singing,” Pixie said behind him.

“I didn’t hear any singing,” Peter made a remark.

“I was real quiet,” she blinked her eyes innocently.

“Oh, quiet enough to hear what’s being said, eh?”

“Well, it is alright I guess,” she commented, “There is still a possibility for us to breakup without making you a public enemy number one.”

“Yeah, how?” he asked.

“I can leave you for someone else.”

To Peter’s mind it was okay, but it just didn’t sound right. And he would rather die and go to Hell, before admitting that. He decided to do the smartest thing in his opinion – to leave things as they are, and decide later. The trick with ‘later’ is same as with ‘tomorrow’ – it never comes, it’s just that ‘later’ was more vague and somehow more honest, than fooling yourself with ‘tomorrow’ every day. Say ‘later’ – and forget about it, at least until it comes up again.

A simple tune played somewhere. Peter came to the cupboard only to see a message from Ted, which read ‘I’m going in!’ He was of course referring to inviting Alex, the girl he liked, to go out; he obtained her cell phone number way back in October, but it took him a month of doubts, then another one just to gather all his courage to do it. The choice of words wasn’t the best though; Peter hastily texted a short reply and threw the phone back on the cupboard. They went back to corridor and sorted their purchases, among other things putting cherries in the fridge.

“You know, somehow I preferred you looking like a demon to that…” Peter gestured at Pixie’s ‘visible classmate’ appearance, as they entered his room again.

“Which one?” she replied with a sigh, seemingly losing her interest in the conversation.

“Hm, come to think of it,” he wondered, “Which is the real one?”

“Real – is human term,” she said, “If you are referring to my true form, then I must admit – you have never seen it.”

“Why not?” Peter was mildly curious now.

“Same as clothes for humans, we can change shape, form, mimic voices, even copy those special body movements, like twitching eye or a limp,” she explained slowly, “But the more ‘stuff’ you ‘wear’, the more sacred your true shape becomes to you over the years. Ah, if you were a demon, it would be so much easier to explain.”

“Is that even possible?” Peter inquired further, “For a human to become demon?”

Pixie sat down on his bed, and, after a moment of thinking, let her upper body fall on the sheets.

“Demons die,” she finally answered, staring at the ceiling, “Maybe not as frequently as humans, owing to the fact that we live forever, but we can be killed nonetheless. Crazy cultists summon a demon and kill him (or her) with some holy sword or,” she snorted, “Grenade. Then there’s of course the human religions and,” she finished quietly, “Millennia Madness.”

“What does that have to do with my original question?” he asked, bewildered. Pixie didn’t react, and he added, “And who’s Milena Agnes?”

“Oh, sometimes I forget, that I’m talking to an idiot,” she responded in a tired voice, and continued, “Well think now – if demons die, and there’s no way to make new ones, we’d be ‘endangered species’ how you humans call ‘em. And it’s Millennia Madness, i. e. the madness of millenniums.”

“Go on, I’m listening,” Peter sat on the other end of the bed, looking at her.

“Well, this is a kind of madness which usually strikes high ranking demons, especially those who are important enough to operate independently,” Pixie explained, “In short, the power and freedom get to their head. Lowest caste of higher demons (myself included) get it very rarely, considering we are doing all the work, and hardly have the time to go mad. And of course, the big bosses usually don’t go mad, mostly because they always have some sort of plan – how to get more power, how to increase efficiency, try new things etc. They are picked for it. You can say,” she stretched her arms behind her head and yawned, “The big guy will put a power-mad freak in commanding position, rather than a thoughtful demon, even if the thoughtful is much better at management than the crazy warlord.”

“So this sort of madness usually gets to those demons with a lot of power and free time?” Peter summarized, “And no purpose or motivation?”

“Exactly. Imagine having god-like powers and nothing to do,” Pixie told him, finally bringing her feet on the bed as well and making caterpillar-like movements, until her feet didn’t hang in the air, instead poking at Peter’s fifth point, “Sure, you can have some fun and even work a little for the first hundred years. Then you gradually descend towards apathy, and in a few millennia, you go completely mad.”

“Aren’t you a little ‘too’ at home?” Peter raised an eyebrow at the figure lying on the bed.

“No,” she replied with a smug grin, and as if on cue, a tail with spade-tip appeared, unfolding from under her and proceeded to tickle Peter randomly. He hastily got up from the bed.

“I’ll sit on the floor, come to think of it,” he said, settling down.

“Admit it, you like listening to me,” she demanded, still smiling; her tail disappeared again.

“Well, yeah, it’s sort-of interesting,” he ventured, “But you still never told where little demons come from.”

“Hah, that’s easy,” she responded, sitting on the bed cross-legged, “You see, in Purgatory, souls are cleansed and later they end up in Heaven, eventually. But in Hell, well, there’s no chance to get out. So you either suffer for eternity, or you break,” she pursed her lips. “And believe me, some people never break, and the least expected ones at that. Like, the general dies, and everybody’s like ‘Oh, that’s a tough nut, he’s not gonna break at least for a thousand years!’ – but after a week of torture he’s ready to sell his mother. Then we get some scrawny pervert, who looks like he’s gonna fall apart by himself, and he lasts for five hundred years or more.”

“So what happens when they break?” Peter was impatient.

“They become demons, the lowest possible kind, looking like this approximately,” she clicked her fingers, and white glow started emanating from her body, moving in a wave through it, transforming her until she looked completely different. She looked way smaller now, only about three feet high; the blistered and sickly rosy-colored skin covered many appendages, with the usual two hands malformed and having different number of fingers. Occasional eye or tentacle stuck out from the body at odd angles, with two normal eyes burning like fireflies beside a crack-like mouth with uneven teeth.

“Get out from my bed!” Peter almost shouted.

“Itsh only a dishguishe,” the creature creaked, but appeared to click its… something, and in a moment, there was Pixie on the bed again, in her visible human shape.

“Poor devils can’t shapeshift, pity them,” Pixie she shook her head in a theatric way and clicked her tongue, “And that is what they are, the serving folk of hell, until they get promoted and progress through ranks of lower demons. The higher the rank, the better they look. I remember one demon, who had eyes everywhere on his body, to a point where he couldn’t move without hurting himself,” her expression became dreamy, and she chuckled, “He got promoted just for laughs, and lost half the extra eyes at once. Still, they say he could outstare anyone, giving the expression ‘to eyeball someone’ a whole new meaning.”

“Wait, you wanna say you were like that once?” Peter turned his head to look at her in amusement.

“Of course,” she steepled her fingers behind her head, and laid back on the pillow. “Every demon was. In fact I’m only one rank away from lower demon, but the difference is… capital,” she enthused. “You get an amazing true shape, you learn magic, you get assigned to a boss and his respectful sin category,” Pixie listed, almost visibly trying not to forget anything, “You get a name and a number and can be summoned in the world of humans…”

“I wonder what’s your number, then?” he inquired curiously.

“Forty-two. I am the forty-second demon of Lust,” she made a face, “I wanted to get into Pride department at first, but failed the test. The only other place left for me was Gluttony, and nobody wants to get there, believe me. So I tried my luck, and here I am. Could be worse…”

“Exams in Hell?” Peter asked, amused.

“That’s the birthplace of all exams, let me tell you,” Pixie replied, a serious expression on her face, “You humans got the idea from us. Bureaucracy too, come to think of it.”

“So I’m guessing the Pride is a prestigious sin category?” Peter soaked every bit of information like a sponge, and didn’t want to stop.

“Oh, yes,” she responded with enthusiasm, removing her hands from behind her head in excitement, “Pride and Envy are the most prominent schools in Hell, closely followed by Wrath and Greed. Wrath was among the strongest ones before, but it was gradually losing points since the war ended. Then come, of course,” she bent her fingers, counting them, “Lust and Sloth, because they are absolutely necessary for Hell’s day-to-day activity. There’s also the unofficial caste of Lie, they claim they are the ‘followers of the eight sin’, and if you ask me, they are still a better bunch than the overcrowded Gluttony ‘trashcaste’.”

“Wow, I didn’t realize there was so much to know about Hell,” Peter mused aloud.

“I wasn’t finished,” Pixie raised her hands, two fingers remaining, and bent one more, “There’s also freelance demons, every single one of them is a special case; some, for example, have double souls like you, or even triple ones. And last, but certainly not least,” she bent the tenth finger, and scowled, “The followers of fallen angel; i. e. the demons who obey only the big guy himself. Cream of demonic society,” she spat in disgust.

“You certainly like them a lot,” Peter put in.

“Oh, don’t get me started…” Pixie waved a hand, “Each and every one of them is a walking, extremely self-important and puffed up disaster. Let me tell you, nobody,” she stressed the word, “Nobody likes them. And they hate each other even more. They are the bad apples that spoil the bunch. Take my advice,” she rose from the bed to look Peter in the eyes and raised a finger meaningfully, “Never do anything with them. Anything. Don’t try to summon one, never trust any word they say. And even if they ask a simple question expecting a ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ in reply – the wisest thing to do is not responding at all.” Her face relaxed a little, “But if you, on the other hand, happen to meet my boss, you can trust him.”

“Really?” Peter asked in a sarcastic tone.

“He’s what you’d say, weird,” Pixie replied thoughtfully, as if searching for words, “Even for a demon. Always keeps his word, tries to be nice to everyone. He had beaten his predecessor to half-death, and instead of killing him (what almost any other demon would do), gave him a job in the office.  And you know,” she paused, and continued a little glumly, “Our department works like a well oiled machine. All documents are in order, workload, even if it’s huge, is spread evenly among everyone. Any problems he solves personally. They say if it weren’t for the nature of our sin category, we’d be in charge of Hell already.”

“Oh, interesting,” he got up, stretching his back, yawned involuntarily, and queried, “And what of Heaven?”

“What of it?” Pixie echoed.

“Well, aren’t you lot supposed to fight angels or something?” he inquired, a little confused.

“It would be like the stick attacking the carrot,” Pixie shrugged, “We’re on the same side, really. If you really want to see this as a battle, then the battleground is you.” She pointed a finger at him, “Then again, I’ve never seen an angel throughout my whole existence.”

They went quiet for a little while; Pixie laid back and thoughtfully stared at the ceiling, while Peter digested the information.

“Well, talk is fine and all that, but don’t you think we ought to be doing something?” he broke the silence and gestured at the door, “I got you sorted for Christmas, so make yourself useful.”

“What would you have me do?” she swayed her legs to the edge of the bed, sat and looked up at him expectantly.

“Well… Can you clean my room, for start?” Peter just couldn’t stop himself from abusing the power.

“Should I still not touch the box under the bed?” she raised her hand, a mop and a bucket appearing out of nowhere near her, “And the little box, and the Book? By the way, did you put the pen back in?”

“Yes I did. You know what,” he said, “Don’t touch them… much, but wipe the dust off.”

“Will do, now get out,” she shooed him away, “Let me work.”

“Just keep all my stuff where it is okay?” Peter tried, but she shoved him outside.

Once the room was empty, Pixie grinned and let go of the mop, which disappeared along with the bucket. She then clicked her fingers – and the room instantly became clean, even window glass became crystal clear from both sides. She clicked her fingers again, this time placing a soundproof magical barrier on the room, and along with it, a pleasant music filled the air. She then jumped on the bed, took the blanket, and wrapped in it, tucking it under herself in a particularly clever move. As if out of nowhere, a book appeared in front of her, suspended by magic in the air, as well as a cup of some steaming hot drink.

“I just love cleaning duty,” she purred, shifting inside the blanket to a more comfortable position.

#

Writing and signing Christmas cards in his dad’s study, Peter couldn’t stop thinking about what Pixie had said about Heaven and Hell. Carrot and stick. His pragmatical side couldn’t ignore the fact, that this meant, that humanity was a hypothetical mule, steering itself, at least in case of the stick – i. e. demons, who were humans before. The nature of carrot remained mysterious – the fact that Pixie never saw an angel was… Interesting?  Strange? Disturbing?

And all this deal with humans becoming demons… Peter wondered, who Pixie had been before, before breaking and becoming a demon. Come to think of it, he should’ve asked her about that. He looked up. He just signed a Christmas card as follows ‘Mr. Harris, may your soul have the most demonic Christmas ever!’ Peter reached for the trash can.

But what if there are no angels? An interesting theory. What if all of them died, but unlike demons, they have no means to fill their ranks with cursed souls?

“I can leave you for someone else…”

The words echoed in his mind. He knew what she meant, but… He never stopped to think about that. Ever since Pixie appeared in his life, it has been different. Everything was. He didn’t feel lonely, now he always knew that the little demon was hiding nearby, just outside his field of vision. And as much as he hated to admit that, she was full of life, in her own way. Peter sat back and wondered, just how much longer she has, before she succumbs to the Millennia Madness. She wasn’t in the likely group, yet she was idling at the moment. Could it be that she goes mad on the contract? Even so, what can he, Peter do about it?

He just wrote, “Mrs. Hanley, I wish you that your loved ones would stay with you forever.” He reached for the trash can again, but changed his mind, and put the card in the stack.

Huh.

#

“What’s going on?”

Pixie had trouble replying, owing to the fact that her mouth was full of honey cake.

“You’re eating in my bed?” bellowed Peter, and turned around in confusion, “Where does the music come from?”

She managed to free one hand from the blanket, and clicked her fingers. The air felt normal again, and seemed to lose a bit of color, especially in warm golden part of color range; the book she was reading, as well as empty cup and plate with honey cake, which a moment ago floated chaotically in the air around like flies – dropped dead to the ground, cup, book and plate disappearing upon reaching the ground zero; only honey cake remained, falling on the carpet and generously dispersing crumbs everywhere.

Pixie swallowed, and avoided looking in Peter’s direction.

“I forgot you were more than a human,” she almost whispered.

“What?” Peter inquired, not quite sure what to make of the situation.

“I said, I forgot you go right through my magic as a hot knife through butter,” she looked at him defiantly.

“You were supposed to clean the place, not... this!” Peter gestured at the honey cake.

“But I did!” Pixie protested.

Peter looked around. The room was clean. He came closer to one of the windows and examined it critically. The glass was perfectly clean, not even a hair or mote of dust anywhere.

“It is clean. It has never been that clean throughout all my life,” he had to admit.

“I just finished cleaning and decided to rest a little,” Pixie lied.

“It is so clean… It smells of magic!” he stuck his finger at her accusingly, “You lie! You didn’t clean anything, you just altered reality and made it clean!”

“Does it matter?” Pixie inquired in a tired voice, clicked her fingers again and honey cake disaster was gone.

Peter didn’t know what to say. It was wrong and unfair. He had to agonize for hours to remove the dirty stains from floor and glass, and as it turned out, other (no, not people) creatures had to click fingers and could relax while…

No, it was after all his room she just cleaned, and does it even matter how it was done, so long as he didn’t have to do it himself? So what if she decided to relax a little?

“I’m sorry, I overreacted,” he said, sitting down beside the bed, “You can carry on what you were doing.”

“Really?” two big puppy eyes stared at him from inside the blanket.

“Really,” he reached for one of his favorite books on the cupboard, “You mind if I join you?”

“You are welcome,” she chuckled. The magic filled the air again, and Peter could hear the music picking up the tune. It was faintly reminiscent of classical music, but the feeling it left… He could close his eyes, and imagine sunny spring day, piano outside and a cute blonde girl playing it... But no, memories still hurt. Peter opened his eyes and started reading, while a piece of honey cake and a cup of some warm brew poked at his face suggestively from time to time.

#

Later that night, after making a small show about Pixie going away for the night (in fact having her switch from the visible to invisible mode), they rested. Peter’s mom tried to insist on Pixie staying for the night, but they decided not to entertain such thoughts on account of many complications associated with it – for example, that she was in fact a girl, and Peter was, well, a boy, so having them sleep in a same room would raise more than a few eyebrows among certain people. The simplest thing would be for her to sleep in another room, but they weren’t sure she was human enough to go with it. What if his parents started asking questions? That is why they decided to do the most sensible thing under the circumstances, since Pixie couldn’t depart from Peter’s side without feeling uncomfortable on part of the contract rules. She somehow managed to cope with it while watching movies, but she didn’t feel like it at the moment, not after such a good evening.

Peter tossed and turned whole night, only briefly sleeping in between, somehow failing to fall into the deeper slumber. He couldn’t quite decide if it was due to the room being too warm or because he had too many things on his mind at the moment.

Pixie slept on the floor, or rather, a foot above it in the air. At the moment she looked as usual – a small wrapped bundle, with her spade-tip tail and horns sticking out of it; she was however wrapped in a different blanket than before, this being Peter’s extra one he had just in case he dumped his bedding in the laundry hamper and forgot to take clean replacements – and discovered it too late; nobody was big on rummaging and poking around the house at night, risking to wake everyone up with the noise. Peter solved this long ago in his adult life, and carried over the practice to his current life as well, by having an extra set of bedding available in his room at all times, and if he used it, he left a small sticker note on the door for himself, as a reminder to get a new extra set.

That was actually the first time they have been so close for months now, since the whole story with Mary was over. Peter was surprised about himself, he didn’t know he had the capacity to be friends with someone like Pixie. In his mind he kept repeating, that she was a demon after all, but treating her as a person didn’t seem to be inappropriate – and her smile was genuine, if he was any judge. Yet her motivation was still a mystery to him. If she knew he was immune to her magic when they signed a contract, and then suspected he would still be when she brought him back in time, then she resigned herself to… communicating with him? Willingly?

“I could leave you for someone else…”

The words echoed in his mind. He even got used to the slight trace of vanilla smell in the air all the time.

“I won’t, okay?” Pixie said in a sleepy voice, and shifted inside the blanket, “Just stop thinking so loud about it, we can talk in the morning if you want to.”

He forgot she could sense the strongest thoughts. Peter felt he ought to be ashamed of getting so used to her company, but instead just smiled in the darkness. She was (he hated to admit it) quite nice. But there was something about her, as if her character was multi-layered. She could be a mean bitch, cute kid, mysterious seductress, and supportive friend. This just made it difficult to understand her; most people in his life were more static, had less depth. Most fictional books and movies somehow had more interesting characters than life produced out of typical people throughout their life. And she was alien here, a carefree immortal creature with a god-like powers (or close to it anyhow), happy about little things.

Multi-layered, that was the word. Depending which layer Pixie ‘wore’ at the moment, meant what her response would be like. As if watching a movie, Peter remembered their first meeting after signing the contract. She approached him, being on much the same level she was on now; he slapped her and accused her of doing not exactly what he requested – and then you could almost visibly see her going down, letting her nature show, with her classic ‘idiot’ phrase. She called him that much rarely now.

He stared at her in the darkness. From some point of view, all humans are all like that, kindness and empathy being the result of conscious thoughts, but push anyone hard enough and you can see their base nature coming up. The bundle rolled in the air, until she looked at him, her eyes a pair of golden embers in the darkness of the room.

“Fine, let’s hear it,” she said in a surprisingly serious and calm manner.

“What?” he echoed.

“You are thinking about me,” she stared at him, unblinking, “For me it’s the same as if you left the TV on for the night, without even bothering to turn the volume down.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Peter replied and shrugged, “Can’t sleep.”

“What bothers you?” she asked with a feeling, again acting outside her usual persona.

“Well, you,” he shrugged again and looked at the ceiling, in an attempt to avoid those burning eyes, “You are always different. You can be quite friendly one moment, and quite bitchy other times, and lost for words when I think you’d have something to say. Like that lie you told Max today in the supermarket, it was lame even by my standards.”

“What do you wish to hear?” she sighed.

“Well, what is the real you like?” Peter inquired and turned briefly to look at her, “I mean we are stuck together for who-knows-how-long, but I can’t be sure about anything concerning you.”

“Are you afraid of me?” the eyes queried – two bright, glowing gemstones; one had to resist the urge to sit and look in them forever, watching bright sparks of different hues of orange and yellow constantly being ignited, mixing and merging in the black void.

“No!” he protested, but immediately regretted it, and added, “Maybe. In same way I can’t tell if a snake is going to bite – I can’t read its emotions. And you are a difficult… person to read.”

“Oh, I get it,” she said. “Maybe I’m just trying to have good time,” she freed her arms from the blanket and stretched her back, yawning at the same time, fixing her stare on him when she finished. “Or maybe I’m just waiting for a good chance…” she disappeared, empty blanket falling on the carpet, “… to kill you,” Peter gasped, as she appeared in the air above him, her suddenly long, claw-like fingernails an inch away from his neck; however, her grey pajamas ruined the scene just a little bit. “Or maybe, just maybe, I feel something for you,” she brought her face very close to his, to a point where he could see his reflection in the black pits of her eyes. She leaned closer and bit his ear playfully, whispering, “And of course poor little Peter will wonder now, if I can feel human emotions.” Peter gulped. She smiled, but there wasn’t a hint of a smile in her eyes, as she pulled herself away from him, finally letting him breathe normally. She examined her hand critically, and blew on it, and very realistic flame burst from her palm. “Or maybe I’m a mastermind, trying to get closer to you, to make your life a living hell,” she purred, and blew on her hand again.

The whole room burst into flames, a small circle surrounded Peter’s bed where flames somehow never entered.

“What the … ?!” he almost jumped, watching fires consume the whole room, wallpaper becoming black and charred, curtains quickly becoming a pile of smoldering ashes. Pixie laughed manically, but stopped abruptly, when she noticed that he grabbed her elbow. She looked at him with something between pity and curiosity, and then a more sad expression slid over her features. She turned away from him, her lips pressed tightly together - and the fire was gone, and room looked as if there never was any.

“No!” Peter protested, but he didn’t know exactly what he was protesting about.

“Try to get some sleep,” she replied dryly, still not looking at him.

“No!” he repeated, and grabbed her by the shoulders, forcefully turning her to face him, “I don’t understand, don’t leave it like that!”

She looked at him wide-eyed.

“Aren’t you scared of me? I could make that a reality, you know,” she replied, but her voice trembled.

“I don’t care! If you really wanted, you’d have it done already,” he stated, his face full of confidence, the look in his eyes distant. It changed however, when she … cried? The demoness was hanging in the air in front of him, crying, her shoulders trembling violently.

“What’s wrong?” he looked lost. Before he didn’t understand anything – and everything was fine. Now things were happening and were definitely not ‘fine’, and he still didn’t have a clue.

“You!” she hit him on the chest with a fist, tears streaming down her face, “Stupid!”

“Wha-” he started, but she hit him again, this time stronger, and he gasped, “Hey!” There was a limit to his patience however, so he sat up and hissed in her ear, as loud as he could while still keeping his voice down, “Can you explain anything? Like, anything at all?! I don’t understand what’s wrong!”

She sobbed a couple times, but got a hold of herself.

“You wanna know what’s wrong?” she asked through gritted teeth, a fierce look in her eyes, “Well I’ll tell you a little about it!” She finally stopped hanging in the air, landed on his knees, and knocked him back again, pressing him into sheets with surprising strength for someone of her size.

“Let’s see, where do we start?” she swayed her hair to the side and bit her lip, lying on top of him, while dangling her feet in the air behind her, “Maybe we should start with the fact, that if any of my coworkers saw what I’m doing here, I’d be a laughing stock for whole Hell. Using my magic to clean the room of some loser? Good joke!”

Peter replied with a few unintelligible sounds.

“Uncomfortable? Get used to it!” she said, “Oh, it’s all fine, if it’s a favor for a friend, right? But while you think you are getting somewhere, with someone, it turns out,” at these words her fingernails dug deep in Peter’s skin, and he stifled a scream, “For your friend you’re still just a bomb waiting to explode! Just because you can do all those things.” She brought her face close again to look at him with those eyes very closely, and echoed his words menacingly, “You want your share of Christmas dinner?”

“I was trying to be nice,” Peter managed, his jaws clenched painfully.

“So that’s what it was,” she mused, her tail lightly touching his arm.

“Would you mind… getting off me?” he gasped.

“Why should I? I am your girlfriend, no?” she looked at him with an innocent expression, never removing her hands from his chest, and added, “You were so worried about me leaving you…”

“Well, I sort-of started to like your company.”

She looked at him in disbelief. And a moment later, the fire died in her eyes. She didn’t remove her hands from his chest, but the fingernails became shorter, until all that was left were a few scratches and red marks here and there on his skin.

“Really?” she asked the unnecessary question; she did hear his thoughts after all.

“Well, until now, you were nice and friendly, and helped, so,” he let his voice trail off and rubbed at the spots.

“I’m sorry!” Pixie looked at his chest, horror in her eyes, “It must’ve hurt! Let me-”

“No!” Peter shouted, pushed her away, and headed for the bathroom, “I’m fine, really!”

“You sure?” she called after him, her expression sorrowful.

He didn’t reply, and hadn’t come back for some time. When he did however, he was wearing a shirt.

“I think I might actually start calling you ‘short fuse’,” he said with a chuckle, “You sure explode fast.” It took only one look at her face for him to raise hands defensively, “Just kiddin’!” And after a short pause, he asked sheepishly, “Can you, by the way?”

She was about to ask him what he meant, but decided not to or maybe she simply got the answer by reading his mind.

“What do you think?” the demoness fixed her stare on him, and mused aloud, “Maybe I should throw another tantrum…”

“I think you can feel emotions, but you certainly take pleasure in the fact, that you’re not human,” Peter concluded.

Pixie was still sitting on the edge of his bed. “What should I do with you?” she asked reproachfully. “What should I do with you?” he replied in turn. They simpered at each other.

“I have an idea,” she said with a cunning smile.

#

Pixie was breathing heavily, hanging above the floor in the air, while Peter was lying nearby under the blanket, pretending to be asleep.

“They are gone,” Pixie said as the door closed somewhere.

“Are you ready?” Peter inquired, his head appearing above the blanket, pen stuck behind his ear.

“Hell yeah!” the little demon smiled.

“Then let’s do it!” he said, jumping out of bed and heading towards the living room, while Pixie simply vanished. In his hands he was holding two pieces of paper, and he immediately put one on the kitchen table, while constantly throwing looks at the other one.

He went rummaging through the whole apartment, picking up things here and there; among them were: a picnic basket, a blanket, a few objects of clothing, some sort of spray can, a couple towels and a huge umbrella. He almost ran into Pixie who flew through the air in a superman pose, carrying a thick bundle of Christmas lights at her side on the way to the balcony.

“No sandwiches for me please!” she reminded him, as she flew outside.

In about ten minutes, both of them were standing in the middle of shiny clean living room, with all the stuff collected by Peter and a full picnic basket assembled in the middle of the room. They sat on the floor near it together and looked at the paper in Peter’s hands.

“Blanket – check, towels – check, lunch – check…” Peter listed, crossing things out with a pen.

“What did you get me?” Pixie reached for the basket, opened it and looked doubtfully at the contents.

“Spaghetti with ketchup, a slice of pizza and some vegetables, tomato and cucumber if I remember correctly,” Peter replied without tearing his gaze from the list, “Umbrella – check…”

Pixie threw a quick glance at the room, saw something and rushed to get it.

“What do you think?” she stood in front of Peter.

“Sunscreen – check…” he muttered under his breath, and then raised his head to look at her, “Hey, that’s mom’s hat.”

“It fits, see?” she showed him how her horns perfectly fit in the holes in the wicker.

“Take it, whatever,” Peter shrugged, and crossing out the last item on the list, he turned it over, “What about you?”

“All the rooms are clean,” she said, putting a finger on her chin, remembering, “I attached Christmas lights inside to all the windows, with a special touch outside, namely – balcony.”

“Aha, aha,” Peter crossed out items on a much smaller list now.

“I also created a fake set of footprints leading away from the apartment and hid your outdoor clothes (along with shoes) in my secret place,” she continued, “And drained the battery of your cell phone.”

“What’s that for?” Peter inquired, pausing.

“What if your parents decide to call? Then you can tell them that battery died, and show your phone as a proof,” Pixie nodded, handing it to him.

“I don’t think this will be needed, but okay,” he shrugged as well, and threw the phone into the picnic basket.

“I also magicked this away from some forgotten bar in Mexico,” she pointed at the small plastic cooler in a pile of other things.

“Stealing?” Peter raised an eyebrow.

“It’s not stealing, if the owner thinks he never had it,” Pixie shrugged.

“What’s in it then?”

“Drinks, I took a little bit of everything,” the demoness in the wicker hat pursed her lips, “We forgot to include them as well as folding chairs.”

“Those brightly colored things?” Peter pointed with the pen, “It looks as if you borrowed them from a circus.”

And it was true – one of the folding chairs had its parts painted in a toxic green and purple, while the other one suffered the unlucky bright orange and deep navy combination.

“You won’t be sorry about them, trust me,” she assured him. “So, are we all set?” Pixie queried, looking at the pile of things in the middle of the room. She picked up a number of things, putting her hand through one of the folding chairs and grabbed the umbrella. Peter crumpled the list and put in his pocket; he in turn picked up other things and the second folding chair, trying to balance the ice cooler between the handle and the picnic basket.

“Yes, we are ready!” he confirmed.

“Take my hand then,” she came closer to stand beside him. He obeyed, taking her small hand into his, already bigger palm; he couldn’t help but marvel, at how soft her skin felt.

“It won’t be pleasant for you, but no matter what happens, don’t let go!” Pixie warned, and steeled herself, breathing out, “Okay, here we go…”

And the world spun around with blinding speed; Peter could swear he caught a glimpse of Egyptian pyramids in one of the flashes. The people, places and the very sun itself danced around them; only he and Pixie seemed to be static in this vortex of color and shapes. It wasn’t unpleasant, but he felt his stomach contracting in disapproval. And when he felt he couldn’t tolerate it any longer, they were standing on solid ground again. To be more precise, Pixie was standing nearby, while Peter collapsed, trying hard not to vomit, and solid ground was in fact slightly wet sand.

Pixie sat down not far from him, but not because she felt dizzy, but to carefully lower her load to the ground and leave it there. The time had stopped for him however, at least until a friendly but firm hand raised his head from the sand.

“Just watch the horizon - find a point and stare at it until you feel better,” Pixie said, while trying to free him from the folding chair and other stuff they brought along, “And try to breathe deep, you’ll find the air here is much better than the city…”

The sky was spectacular, a few lazy clouds somehow only stressing the slow change of color from the tender thin strip of rosy-violet at the skyline all the way to deep blue directly above.

“Is this a parallel dimension or something?” Peter inquired, never tearing his gaze from the marvelous view.

“Why do you think that?” she asked after a few metallic noises.

“Well, it’s December and early morning, and this…” Peter tried to gesture at the surroundings, but had certain trouble with it, on part of him using his hands and knees for support.

“Come here,” Pixie seemingly without much effort grabbed him by the chest and lifted him backwards. For one crazy second he thought she was about to ram him into the sand, but he suddenly found himself sitting on one of the folding chairs.

“Gee, thanks,” he looked around. Pixie was sitting on the other chair beside him, struggling to open the umbrella.

“No problem,” she waved a hand slightly irritably, as it was obvious, she had some trouble opening the damn thing, “You realize that in the Southern Hemisphere it’s summer, right?”

“Oh. Right,” Peter didn’t think about it, but he nonetheless tried to snatch the umbrella from Pixie’s hands. “It was broken and my dad fixed it, but it has been weird ever since, let me,” he explained, and she gave up, instead reaching for their picnic basket and the cooler.

“And of course you understand, that due to our relative position to the sun, the time here is dilated to some degree?” she squinted at the sun, “I’d say by about five-four hours. Want some cold tea? And take off that sweater, you look ridiculous.”

“Aha!” Peter exclaimed, as the umbrella finally sprang open, and he forcefully stomped it the sand behind them. He looked at Pixie’s confused expression, and blushed, “Ah, sweater, of course.”

He took it off, and reached for a green t-shirt he took with them. Pixie furrowed her brows at the red marks left by her fingernails on his skin, and looked as if she was about to say something, but decided not to in the last moment.

“I also took a can of sunscreen, so that we don’t get nasty sunburn,” he told her, spotting the can nearby.

“You kiddin’, right? Me, sunburnt?” she almost laughed.

“Well, why did you need the hat and umbrella then?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Because the hat fits! With my horns and all... Besides, it’s cute, don’t you think?” she chirped, cocking her head to the side, and added more seriously, “And the umbrella for the drinks of course, you think an ice cooler that small can keep drinks cold even in merciless direct sunlight?”

“Why do you even need to look cute?” he wondered, staring at the skyline again.

“Well don’t you feel good, when you know you look nice?” she countered.

“I don’t really care.”

“You mean to say you don’t care how you look?” she queried with slight disbelief.

“Why should I? It’s not like I see myself all the time,” he replied in a dull voice.

“Well, isn’t there a person you’d want to look nice for?” Pixie realized her mistake too late.

“There was,” he replied shortly.

Damn it! It was her own doing, and she knew it.

“Tea is in orange cans if you want any,” she said, and wandered off. The soothing sound of waves and pleasant scenery made the place perfect for a vacation. She couldn’t help herself, and ambled closer to the water; it felt cold at first, but somehow the longer her bare red feet stayed there, the more she wanted to remain. She ended up walking along the beach line, leaving deep footprints in the wet sand, which were however rapidly erased by constant splashing of waves.

It was quite a while since she was here last time. Yet with all the changes in the world, everything that had transpired, the time all but completely stopped here. She was sure there still was a rock (if she looked hard enough) somewhere deeper on the island bearing the inscription ‘Val and Mark’ they left so long ago. She smiled at the skyline; there was something about the ocean, which put your mind at ease. It definitely had something to do with its sheer size – if such a giant, enormous thing could be at peace there was no reason why you shouldn’t.

“It didn’t have to be like that, not then, not now,” she thought glumly, despite herself. She absent-mindedly clicked her fingers and a small glass bottle of soda appeared in her hand. She removed the bottle cap bare-handed, by simply inserting her fingernail under it forcefully, but hardly paying any mind. It was she had to admit, delightful, to have a quiet drink in place like that, looking at the waves. There was something missing however, and she clicked her fingers, and very quiet music filled the air, different from the kind she listened to before.

“... before, it always leads me here…” she quietly sang along the familiar lines, and closed her eyes.

#

“I almost thought you left me here for good,” Peter commented with a shy smile. While she was away, he unfolded and spread the blanket behind their chairs, in the shade provided by the umbrella, and collected most of their scattered stuff to a neatly ordered pile nearby. He also changed his pants in favor of swimming briefs. “How’s water?” he inquired.

“It is fine I guess, once the sun passes those few clouds, it will be perfect for a swim,” she commented.

“I sure hope you got a spell to warm the food up, by the time we get hungry it will be cold,” Peter said, “It’s fine for my sandwiches, but spaghetti taste better when warm.”

“A’ight, I’ll think of something,” the demon replied, sitting down on the blanket, hugging her knees and looking at the ocean.

Peter dropped the towels he just picked up. “Something’s the matter?”

Pixie threw him a dismal stare, looked as if she was about to reply, but turned back to watch the waves. She was surprised however, when he landed on the blanket near her, and took her by the hand.

“Out with it, short fuse.”

“Don’t call me that,” Pixie dropped, irritated, but it only met Peter’s smile.

“Now that sounded more like Pixie I know,” he said, “Remember why we went here?”

“To relax a little,” she responded, hiding her face in her knees.

“Then why so sour all of a sudden?”

She took a pause, about as long as she could so that it won’t count as ignoring the question on her part, and replied, “The place brings back memories.”

“Then it’s up to us to create new ones,” he replied.

“And wha, gah!” she started to speak, only to get a mouthful of sand. She spat and got up, her eyes burning, “You!”

“Catch me if you can!” Peter shouted and laughing, ran along the beach line. He didn’t expect her to appear out of thin air in front of him, furious and with the sand in her hair.

“Crap!” he chuckled, and went for the ocean, “Bomb’s away!”

The water exploded with a shower of sprinkles, a thousand tiny diamonds in the rays of the sun, which came from behind the cloud just now.

#

“Hey, look, it’s a turtle,” Peter gestured at the small critter near the blanket.

“Tortoise,” Pixie corrected him, jumping on one foot to get the water out of her ear, and bent to pick up the wet rag from sand underfoot, which turned out to be Peter’s t-shirt.

“Listen, I don’t know if I should, but I want to, and that’s it,” he said, reaching with his hand into the picnic basket.

“Could you elaborate?” Pixie threw him a confused look, as she spread his t-shirt on the sunny side of the umbrella.

Instead of answering he produced a small digital camera out of the basket.

“Oh, you really want to take a photo of a real demon, do you?” she asked with a strange expression on her face.

“Not really,” he explained, “Just something to remember; besides, people will simply think it’s some sort of cosplay.”

She stared at him, her expression doubtful.

“Please?” he ventured.

“Oh, alright,” she replied in a grumbling manner, “Does it have a timer or something?”

“I guess,” he looked at the configuration menu, “Wait, let me see…”

“I can make it hang in the air, just position it how you like.”

Finally finding the necessary function, he pointed the camera at the beach. Once satisfied with the background and the angle, he gave Pixie a thumbs up, and instantly felt that camera no longer moved along with his shaky hand. He set the timer for a minute, and ran to the spot, with Pixie joining him at the side.

They adopted cool, superhero-like poses.

“And how long do we have to stand like, ooh,” Pixie lost her balance, and almost fell, stepping on Peter’s toe in process.

“Ow, get up, quickly!” Peter helped her up and heard a distant camera click.

“Set the timer again,” she told him, letting her hands drop to her sides.

Peter’s expression changed, when he reached the camera, and looked at the photo.

“No,” he said quietly.

“Why? You don’t want a cool photo?” she came closer, “Let me see!”

He silently offered her the camera. On screen there was a photo of Peter helping Pixie get up, they knew it, but it didn’t look like it. It looked like they were holding hands, Pixie leaning on him slightly, while Peter’s face expression consisted of genuine concern and just a tiny bit of a wistful smile.

“But it’s…” she almost dropped the camera, and in the next moment, they found themselves hugging each other. To this day she still didn’t know, who hugged whom, and it didn’t matter.

#

The green flame trembled and danced in the light wind under the plate, the fire’s white outline and color in bright contrast with its source, that is, Pixie’s palm.

“Is that the part where deeper insecurities take over, and one of us runs away?” she idly commented, while waiting for the food to become warm.

“I don’t want to act according to badly orchestrated behavioral patterns,” Peter replied, “They may look nice in media, but have no place in real life.”

They looked at each other. You could see sparks fly through the air between them.

“What were you thinking?!” the shouted in unison. Pixie clapped her hand over her mouth, while Peter stared at her in confusion. His shoulders shook, and he laughed merrily; Pixie couldn’t help, and quietly chuckled as well, the green fire flickering in and out of existence.

“My, we’re so lost,” she said, after they were done laughing.

“You knew this was going to happen sooner or later, didn’t you?” Peter directed the unexpectedly serious question at her, “Considering that now I know for a fact that you are capable of having feelings.”

“Yesterday you weren’t so sure,” she turned her nose up defiantly.

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“Okay,” she looked him square in the eyes, “I got a counterquestion for you. Do you realize what you’re getting in?”

“I thought I already sold my soul, so anything will be a marked improvement over my current situation,” he waved a hand, and reached for sandwiches. A can of sunscreen hit him hard in the shoulder.

“Idiot!” he heard a familiar phrase.

“What’s that for?” he left sandwiches alone for a moment to rub at the spot.

“You still think it’s about that miserable little soul of yours?” she stood up, her hands akimbo, spaghetti and pizza forgotten on the folding chair.

“And it’s not? Besides, correct me if I’m wrong, but you get two souls, if I go to Hell,” he responded, looking at her in slight bewilderment.

“My, you really did hit every branch when you fell out of the stupid tree,” Pixie shook her head, “An intellect rivaled only by garden tools.”

“Then enlighten me, oh great demon of smartassness,” he parried.

“Fine,” she let the remark pass, “Answer a simple question: if I had been working all the time instead of babysitting you, how many deals would I have signed by now?”

“How would I know such things?” Peter said, “It’s not like you told me and I forgot.”

“Standard rate, at least in our department, is one soul a day.”

He stared. It was Pixie he knew for months now and suddenly she became different – grander somehow. He realized for the first time, that there stood a supernatural creature, which could decide fates of men, had an amazing power to be in many places at once, and move between continents in a blink of an eye. But instead she chose to stay in some backwater town with him, have a picnic and quiet holidays, and used her deadly magic to warm the food and attach Christmas lights. And you couldn’t complain about her looks either, many other men would be at her feet long ago.

“Which wouldn’t be so bad, come to think of it,” she answered his unvoiced thoughts.

“But… why?” Peter remembered his favorite line.

“Because!” she replied owlishly, bringing her hands to her mouth, trying hard for her voice to sound lower.

“You don’t make any sense.”

“Neither do you.”

The fixedly stared at each other, but then their features relaxed. Peter was about to turn away, when the line came.

“Kiss me, you idiot…”

He brought his face closer, “And the consequences?”

She made a face, “It’s not like you cared about them before.” She felt his hands closing around her small frame, as he pulled her closer by the waist, and their lips met.

Ocean largely contributed to the speeding winds on the islands of Pacific, and even the sunny weather could be quite windy sometimes. But the two small figures on the beach didn’t mind, when wind picked up the blanket and tried to snatch it away, only to wrap it around the pole of the beach umbrella; the spaghetti went cold, forgotten on the folding chair.

She remembered everything. How they met, and she saw nothing but a scrawny kid in funny pajamas, who looked a lot like… her only friend, gone to the sands of time. How they signed a contract, and what happened afterwards, something he still didn’t remember. How she met him again in the past, their bet and whole story with Mary. She remembered feeling pity for him, for she knew how such stories usually ended, and what Mary really told her in the hospital, not the version she presented to him. And now it came down to this…

Pixie’s eyes were closed, and her heart raced through its paces somewhere under her throat, loudly pounding in her ears.

“Wow,” he whispered, withdrawing for an inch, “I’ve never…”

“Don’t say anything,” she whispered, putting a her fingers on his lips. She didn’t remove them, instead lightly running her hand across his face, until she reached the back of his head, at which point she pulled him in for another kiss.

They stood together for a long time.

#

“…And of course there should be a fish course, it’s good for digestion. You think we could manage something with plate fish or salmon, perhaps? I wonder what do you think, Peter?”

He put another peeled potato on a plate nearby, and raised his head from his task.

“What-what?” he queried, “Sorry, I got lost in my thoughts. What were we talking about?”

“Which’s better fried, plate fish or salmon?” Pixie asked from the chair next to his mom’s.

“Salmon’s alright I guess,” he shrugged, and proceeded with his task.

“Oh, don’t mind him,” his mom said, “I’ll ask for a good recipe from a friend of mine, and we’ll see what she says...”

“This can be fun, you know,” he heard Pixie’s voice in his ear. He turned his head only to see the red demoness putting a finger to her lips, while her human shape still sat at the table and pretended to listen to his mom. “Look,” she chuckled as she moved her fingers as if there were invisible strings attached to them, and the figure at the table raised her arms and stretched her back. If he didn’t know that the real Pixie was standing beside him, the motion would’ve looked totally natural to him.

“Hey, Peter!” the figure at the table asked, while Pixie standing next to him finished, “Did I tell you, that things are going to get real interesting from now on?”

He felt confused, he didn’t know which one of them he should respond to; it seemed however, that his mother was expecting him to do it to the figure sitting near the table.

“Yes?” he ventured.

“Could you please bring me my notebook? I think I left it in your room,” the figure asked with a fake smile. The real Pixie added, “I think your mom wants to have a few private words with me, so go away for some time, I’ll peel the rest of the potatoes myself if need be.”

“I’m not sure I saw you bringing it along, but I’ll look for it,” he said, got up, and went out of the room. “I’m going to go completely crazy if it goes on like this,” he thought.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get you out of the asylum as soon as I’m done laughing,” the demoness was already waiting for him in his room.

“Weren’t you supposed to be conversing with my mother?” he came to stand by the window.

“But I am,” she shrugged, “In fact I think I could manage about five such puppets, and only if we add the sixth one they will lose some of their realistic behavior.”

“You know, you scare me sometimes.”

She soundlessly approached; he knew that when he felt her breath on the back of his neck, and in next moment heard a soft whisper in his ear, “But that’s what makes it interesting.”

He spun around. The room was empty.

#

Later that day they went out to get a Christmas tree; Peter’s dad was supposed to bring it with a car, and they were waiting for him to arrive. It was snowing whole day yesterday (which they incidentally spent on the island), and everything was covered with a thick layer of white goodness.

“Could you perhaps tone down your mischievous persona a little bit?” Peter asked her lazily, leaning on the wall, “I know it’s not real you, but the way you try to remind me that you’re ‘evil’ is really… childish.”

“Nah-nah-nah, you signed for it, and that means full package,” she shook her head a lot more vigorously than was necessary, only making the child-like similarity stronger.

She still looked like her human self with black hair, wearing light blue parka coat along with some sort of gray knitted sleeves starting at her elbows and suspended by a thin strip of fabric going between her thumb and the rest of her fingers.

“It’s like a special kind of torture just for me then?” he inquired further, his curiosity being the first and foremost driving force behind the questions.

“But you knew what you were doing, right?” she looked at the driveway, when a car went through, but turned back, when she realized it wasn’t the one.

“I thought you did it,” he replied smugly.

She never replied, but something hit him in face.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have done that,” he said in a dangerous voice, “I’m the reigning champion of the game.”

“Defend yourself, sir!” the small figure approached him from the middle of the yard. She was carrying a surprising amount of perfectly round snowballs pressed to her chest with her left hand, and held one in her right.

“I’m sure you know what you’re doing…” Peter grinned, and went for a surprise attack. The snowball shattered on her right horn, but the sheer force of impact propelled its remains further, showering her face and hair with white.

“Headshot! Woo-hoo!”

“You just signed your death warrant,” she replied, and vanished. “Hey,” a snowball caught Peter in the face and he scrambled to look where it came from.

“But it’s unfair!” he protested, “You’re using magic!”

“Get used to it,” she came closer to look at him with a mixed expression, “There’s going to be a lot of it, where you’re going.”

“I never refuse a challenge,” he said, surprising himself even with his sheer ardor, “Show me your best!”

“As you wish,” she said tonelessly, and vanished again. Peter vigorously looked around, trying to make it impossible to strike at his back. She simply dropped a snowball on him from above, without even bothering to give it any starting speed, letting gravity do its work. It shattered against his head, a couple pieces falling past his neck and into his puffer coat. He realized his mistake, and took into account the possibility of aerial attack. But somehow he failed to spot her in the air some distance away, and ignored her presence twice while turning around.

“He’s too slow, that’s no-” her train of thoughts was interrupted, when two snowballs simultaneously hit her on the chest; she was so surprised, that she forgot to maintain the flying spell, and fell to the ground.

“… And the bird goes down! You really thought I didn’t see you?” he laughed.

“Hey,” she said, appearing behind him and … instantly received a snowball in her face.

“Double strike!” he cheered, “I expected that.”

“You wanna play rough? I’ll show you!” she exclaimed, disappearing again.

Peter looked around and spotted the small figure about ten feet away. He didn’t think twice before launching another projectile her way, but looked confused, when the snowball passed right through it. And next moment, a full armload of snow fell on him from above.

“I didn’t even bother making snowballs out of it…” she chirped from the air. He looked at her fervently.

A little later, one could see Peter hiding in his snow fort, while dozens of Pixie-clones attacking him with robotic movements, their precision terrible, but sheer numbers quickly turning their unlucky targets into snowbanks in seconds. Peter wasn’t stupid however, using decoys (his hat on a stick) and special eyeholes in his barricades to search for the real Pixie, and whenever he managed to locate her, he attacked with deadly precision. It worked well until Pixie got an idea of getting some of her clones flying, carpet-bombing his fort from above as well as the front; he had no option, but to retreat slowly, losing position after position.

“Gotcha!” he shouted, after another lucky snowball on the real one.

She fell out of the air not far from him, all her clones vanishing at the same time.

“I’m tired, would you agree to a draw?” she breathed, lying down in a snow. She wiggled her arms and legs a little, making a snow angel.

“Aha, so you admit that not even with magic you could defeat me?” he gloated, and added, “That’s ironic – a demon making snow angels, huh…”

“Would you feel better if I abandoned the practice of actually making snowballs manually, and simply levitated a hundred heaps of snow your way?” she replied in a tired voice, lifting her head from the snow to look at him.

“You didn’t have to ruin it for me,” he commented reproachfully.

“But I didn’t do it, did I?” she got up, “Come here.”

He obeyed, and she hugged him, the light smell of vanilla in the air becoming inescapable.

“It was fun, you’re really good at it,” she said, looking him in the eyes, and kissed him lightly.

“You know, at times like these, you can tell me you just burned down my house, and I would forgive you,” he commented with a sheepish expression.

“Hm. By the way, don’t you think we’re waiting for a little too long?” she inquired, still hugging him.

He took his phone out, and dialed.

“Hey mom,” he said, “Uh-huh. Yeah. No, we had a small snowball war, so we’re not really freezing. How long? Okay.”

“They will be late, won’t they?”  she asked, still not wanting to let go of him.

“Yes, they will be around later,” he nodded, “How about making a snowman?”

“Eh, I must admit, I find it dangerous,” she said quietly.

“What’s so dangerous about making a snowman?” he raised an eyebrow.

“They get strange ideas,” Pixie replied.

“Who?” Peter asked in turn.

“Snowmen.”

“I can’t say I understand, but let’s do it anyway,” he said, and after liberating himself from her embrace, started rolling the small snowball, thinking of making a classic three-piece one.

Pixie watched him doing it, a doubtful expression on her face.

“That’s his head?” she uttered at last, “Round?”

“What do you mean? You never made a snowman before?” Peter raised his head.

“If you make them this way, they almost certainly get inferiority complex at some point,” she shrugged.

“You speak is as if they come alive at the end or something,” he said, thinking, “Knowing Pixie, they just might.”

“What’s the fun in making an immobile statue?” she asked, starting to roll her own ball of snow.

Peter didn’t know what to reply, so he simply continued. At some point the ball became so heavy, that not only snow stuck to it but also other things from under it – dirt, cigarette butts, sticks etc. and he had to continue rolling it more carefully, so that it at least partly remained white.

“If that’s gonna be his head, he’s bound to have some dirty thoughts,” Pixie commented, looking up from her smaller, yet perfectly round white sphere of snow.

“I think it’s going to be his feet, or rather, a bottom part,” Peter ventured.

“That explains why it’s so full of crap,” she chuckled.

“How do you manage to keep yours so white and clean?” he asked, but she just shrugged without any response.

In a little while, the snowman was done, at least its basic three pieces.

“If we are going for dead classic style, we need a carrot, a top hat, a scarf and maybe a corncob pipe,” the little demon said, examining their work critically, “And buttons or coal for eyes.”

“I saw once a horror-styled snowman with mouth full of ketchup,” Peter said, and reached to pick up something, “Could you split that in half?”

She looked at a wedge-shaped piece of broken red brick he offered her.

“Brick nose? Whatever…” she took it in her right arm, and prepared her left arm. Peter expected a flashy spell of sorts, but she simply waited patiently, until the fingernail on her middle finger grew to three times its length, and then sliced the piece of brick in half as if it was butter, sticking the brick nose afterwards onto the snowman’s face.

“I sure hope you don’t plan on making him a smile out of dirt,” Pixie commented with a doubtful expression.

“Got any better ideas?” he responded as he tried to sit down on the stair of the entrance to the nearby apartment building, but got up as soon as the chill crept up on his fifth point.  Instead of answering, she reached with her hand and made a bold slice with her fingernails at the spot where snowman’s mouth should have been. Using her long fingernail as a chisel, she then proceeded sculpting it with more cuts and slices until it became quite impressive likeness of a proud smile.

“Doesn’t look like you need my help,” Peter echoed, coming closer to take a better look. Pixie snorted and went to look for pebbles for the eyes, shaking her head disapprovingly at a few bottle caps on the ground here and there. Finding a few appropriate stones, she came back, only to find that Peter brought a couple sticks for hands, and was busy attaching them to the sides.

“I thought, maybe we should add horns to him? You know, he doesn’t have to resemble a human…” he let his voice trail off.

“No, I like to be the only demon around, thank you very much,” she tiptoed to insert the snowman’s new eyes in their place, and stood back to get a better look at him, shooting a glance Peter’s way as well, “What do you think?”

“Could use a hat or a scarf,” he responded, “But I don’t fancy leaving mine here.”

“Let him worry about it then,” she said and brought her hand palm up to her mouth, and blew on it, her breath coming out in a white cloud, which, Peter could swear, had couple electric-like sparks in it. Upon reaching the snowman, nothing happened at first. And then the snowman moved. Well, not exactly moved – he simply turned his head sideways to look at the driveway.

“… We need to crush everyone who opposes!” he exclaimed in a high-pitched, almost squeaky voice.

Peter gasped and Pixie shook her head. “I told you, they get weird ideas,” she leaned back to whisper in his ear.

“Er, I’m sorry, Mr. Snowman?” he stepped forward. The snowman slowly turned its face toward him, in a rather creepy way. Peter’s eyes widened a little, but he continued, “Who are you planning to crush?”

“Ah, the first creator,” the snowman waved a stick-hand in recognition, his mouth shaping the words as if some parts of it still didn’t move quite well, “Everyone who doesn’t look like me and refuses to submit.”

“Oh boy,” Peter murmured to Pixie, “Just what we needed, a racist snowman.”

“As a matter of fact,” the snowman continued, “I need a scarf or a hat to be complete. And the sooner I get one, the sooner my quest for world liberation can begin!”

Using his bottom piece as a wheel, he rolled away into the night.

“That’s a wandering heart attack,” Peter commented, his expression worried.

“Don’t worry, I put a spell on him, so that people will forget seeing him soon afterwards,” Pixie tried to calm him down, and added, “Still, I feel cheated out of my fun; we put so much effort in him, so that he would simply run away?”

“That’s why it is more fun to make them immobile – at least you can admire ‘em for days, if the weather permits it,” he said.

“You say it like you got nothing to admire,” she intoned, cunning sparks in her eyes.

“Oh, I wonder,” Peter replied, “What could that be? I really don’t know…”

“Idiot,” she went with her favorite line and came closer, “I think you need to be reminded.”

#

“Oh, lovely!” exclaimed Peter’s mom, entering the living room, where Peter and Pixie were busy decorating the Christmas tree next morning, “Have you by any chance seen my black hair band? I can’t seem to find it anywhere…”

“How are the cookies doing? Did you put ‘em in yet?” Pixie rapidly switched topic, as Peter went pale and slouched visibly sitting on the floor.

“Oh yes, I need to check on them…” she bustled out of the room.

Peter felt a slight nudge on his shoulder. “You don’t solve the problem by stuffing it deeper,” she said with unexpected warmth in her voice.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he gave a dry reply. She appeared behind and hugged his neck, hanging a little on it so that her face was very close to his.

“It will take some time, but you will feel better,” she offered, and took his big hand in her miniature one, “There are things though, not even death can destroy.”

He turned his head, only to see her human face nearby. “You’ve been eavesdropping?” he asked very quietly.

“I’m a demon, what did you expect?” she smiled viciously. Her hand reached under his shirt and scratched at the skin on his back gently; but Peter’s reaction was unexpected – he freed himself from her grasp, stood up and paced to the other end of the room.

“Hey! I was trying to make you feel better, you know!” she called after him.

“No need for that,” he waved a hand slightly irritably.

“Other guys would love to be in your shoes,” she added spitefully.

“Oh, is that so?” he exclaimed.

Her expression instantly went from mildly annoyed to a sad one.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it in such a way,” she crept a little closer.

“Short fuse,” he threw a glance at her, and she risked a smile.

“Give the hair band back,” she ventured, “It wasn’t hers to start with, but keep the rose and the piece of resin as long as you like.”

Silence descended for awhile.

“Don’t you think,” Peter said, still looking at her, “That we got together… too soon?”

“Technically, she still lives, inside you,” the demoness pointed out, “But if that’s what you want, I’ll keep my distance.” She said the last sentence nonchalantly, but deep inside she felt a desire to kill the silly mortal, and to hell with the consequences.

“If that’s alright with you,” he managed an apologetic smile.

“No, it’s not; I’ll rip your heart out while you sleep,” she thought, but nodded slowly and said, “Okay.”

 Peter went to his room, Pixie following close behind. He reached under his bed, produced a box, opened it and paused, looking at its contents. He sighed, took the hair band out, sealed the box and put it back in its place.

“Hey, mom!” he shouted, “Look what I found!”

“Good boy, you’ll be fine,” Pixie thought, “If I don’t lose it.”

#

And finally, that day came. Almost every apartment in the house was decorated; a huge punch bowl was resting in the kitchen, with ladle and a couple glasses nearby so that anyone could treat himself to a portion of sweet beverage; lacking a fireplace, Peter hung four socks (one for each family member plus Pixie) over the heater in the living room; as visiting separate houses didn’t make much sense (with many apartments inside each one), the street carol singers simply assembled in groups and were singing for pleasure – clutching at cups of hot cocoa, coffee, tea and even soup.

They went shopping again. Or, to be more precise, Peter went, and Pixie just followed him; he preferred her following him in a normal way, rather than teleporting after him each couple of seconds, as it was disconcerting and quite distracting.

“Didn’t we buy all we need already?” she chirped happily, trying to keep up with him.

“Yes,” he replied.

“So …?” she nudged.

“So what?” he parried.

“Why are we going shopping again?” she queried innocently.

“You’re not going to let it slide, are you?” Peter dropped, turning a corner.

“No!” she said, grabbing his elbow so they won’t get separated by the crowd.

“Fine,” he gave up, “I’m here to get something for my family. You know, gifts.”

A short silence followed, only to delay the inevitable.

“Are you getting anything for me?”

He could see the question coming a mile away, but it still caught him by surprise. Just what are you supposed to gift to a demon? Definitely not clothes and probably not something decorative – she didn’t really have a home to decorate; a treat maybe? Or a toy? She would definitely enjoy a treat, but there will be enough food at the table as it is... He thought about numerous guys getting teddy bears for their girlfriends. She wasn’t his girlfriend, not since yesterday, so the this wasn’t an option…

“I can hear some of your thoughts, remember?” Pixie’s voice pierced through the noises of the crowd to reach his ears.

“You’re trying to push my buttons again? And what if that’s supposed to be a surprise?” he stopped and looked at her. She had the decency to look ashamed.

“Well, I was curious,” she shuffled her feet.

“Let’s go…” he sighed and started walking ahead, trying to avoid jostling anyone.

“What will it be?” the little demon trailing after him asked, still not wanting to give up on questioning.

There were a number of shops around, full of people. “Prices are probably hyperinflated thanks to the holidays,” Peter thought.

“Hey, look,” she pointed, “Mistletoe!” A stall nearby had the iconic Christmas plant signifying romance, luckily without berries (a few articles in the newspapers warned the citizens about the dangers of consuming them).

“Yeah, very original gift, just what I was looking for,” he remarked sarcastically, but approached the stall nonetheless.

“Fancy a sprig of mistletoe, young lads?” the vendor inquired, gesturing at the merchandise.

“Yes!” answered Pixie.

“No,” replied Peter.

“Don’t be such a bore!” she demurred.

“The quarrels of lovers are the renewal of love, eh?” the vendor tried to muster his features into what he considered to be a ‘knowing smile’. Peter gave up, yet again trying to calm himself with the thought that going with the flow is the wisest course of action.

“We’ll take one,” Peter grabbed the first small plant he saw, produced a few bank notes of low value and dropped them into the trader’s wanting hand.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, widening his smile into a grin.

Peter shoved the accursed plant into Pixie’s hands, and asked in a tired voice, “Happy now?”

“You know,” she replied, without a second glance at the purchase, instead focusing her attention on following Peter, who picked up his pace again, “Somehow, you manage to ruin the mood every time.”

“Didn’t we agree that you will keep your distance from now on?” he inquired, as they stopped again.

“But I am!” Pixie raised her hands protectively, “You’d know the difference, trust me. Why did we stop, by the way?”

Instead of answering, he pointed at the sign above the small shop nearby.

“A gift shop?” Pixie paused only for a second before following Peter inside. Inside, the shelves were full of… gifts. There were many things, like a wide variety of clocks for example, but all of the merchandise seemed to approach a decorative kind. A huge scimitar that was begging to be hung over a fireplace looked blunt to Pixie’s experienced eyes.

“Maybe a more practical gift would be better?” she said, examining the sand pictures, the ones that formed different shapes each time they were turned over.

“Like what?” he queried, looking at a huge shelf full of statues and figurines.

“Depends on what a person likes,” she responded, “Maybe we should get a fancy pen for your dad?”

“Not a bad idea,” he admitted, not even bothering to look at the shelf with vases. “Hey,” Peter came closer, “You know, I was thinking…”

“Ye-e-e-e-es?” the demoness looked up from a shelf with snow globes, where those that were recently held by other people could be easily recognized by the snow still slowly swirling inside.

“It was quite bold of you to ask if I’m getting you anything, but are you planning to do the same?” he asked bluntly.

“You know, I just might,” she chimed and winked, lightly dancing away from him to another shelf, full of Santa Claus figurines. She wrinkled her nose at them and uttered, “Now I think I know where Lewis got his necklace from, ugh.”

That’s it then, Peter thought. Now he has to get her a present, it would be impolite otherwise. But what to get? Maybe buying her some candy will be nice, does she even like them?

“I do,” she replied to his thoughts at the end of the aisle, looking at the large stand dedicated to the sea.

“The pen might not be such a bad idea,” he mused aloud. He imagined his dad taking the pen lined with gold (or at least, some metal bearing resemblance to gold) to sign an important document while everybody else (elderly gentlemen in business suits) were just standing there, waiting on his decision. Yeah, Pixie definitely nailed that one well.

“Then we need to find a gift for your mom,” she said, coming back to him, “What does she like?”

“Dunno,” Peter shrugged.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Pixie scoffed, and crossed arms on her chest, “She’s your mom!”

“Well, for instance, her favorite flowers are daffodils, but I don’t fancy putting them under a Christmas tree,” he countered.

“Okay, what would she like, then?” she rephrased the question, throwing a look around.

“Well, maybe something cute…” he followed her gaze, and reached for a small clay likeness of house, “Like this.” It was small and not very expensive, but the level of detail was surprisingly good – you could make out even snowy footprints on the doorstep.

“Hm-m-m?” Pixie narrowed her eyes at the object, “It’s small… And yeah, kinda cute.”

“You like it then?”

“Hey, you’re not buying it for me,” she reminded him, “The question is - will she?”

“I think,” Peter shrugged again.

“Then buy it, it’s not like it’s terribly expensive,” she concluded.

“I think I will,” he said. Pixie rolled her eyes, and went in general direction of exit, stopping now and then to take a look at anything catching her eye.

But there was still a question of Pixie’s gift…

“I can hear you,” she exclaimed in a singsong manner in the distance. Peter smiled as he took his place at the back of the queue. A sudden thought struck him, and without thinking it over much, he grabbed an item from a nearby shelf and placed it next to a gift for his mom.

“Don’t think about it… Don’t! Think of something else, ehm… Africa! Giraffes, elephants, desert…” As he was done paying for his purchases, he carefully placed the gift for mom into a gift bag, while he hid the other object in the folds of his coat.

“You bought me a statuette of an elephant?” Pixie asked and raised an eyebrow at him; she was leaning on the wall beside the entrance.

“I didn’t, I swear,” Peter assured her, and narrowed his eyes, “Are you sure you’re not listening to my thoughts with special attention or something?”

“Why would you assume such things,” she turned her nose up, feigning insult.

“Because you’re a kid,” he replied with a smile, nudging her shoulder lightly, “You understand that it won’t be fun if you look behind the curtains, but then you get so excited that you can’t help yourself.”

She gave him an appraising look, and said in a suddenly serious voice, “My, you’ve grown while I wasn’t looking.” He let the patronizing remark pass, as he made his way towards nearest office supplies store.

“I’m pretty sure I saw stationery store around here somewhere…” Pixie said, “But you know what – I need to do something, I’ll catch you later!”

And before Peter could turn his head to look at her, she was gone.

#

There was a news report on TV when Peter turned it on.

“Several witnesses report being assaulted by a psychopath dressed in a snowman costume, but the representatives of the law enforcement claim they were unable to find any evidence to support the claims; most officials refused to comment on the situation…”

Peter felt his hand inevitably reaching his face to show a facepalm to the world in general; making a snowman with Pixie was definitely not the brightest idea. The atmosphere in the house was quite nice however, with all kinds of pleasant smells finding their way from the kitchen, while the everpresent pine scent coming from the Christmas tree reminded him of the past Christmas celebrations. The holiday spirit was even stronger with the bowls full of candies left in each room, so anyone could take a random candy anytime (the younger folk, that is Pixie and Peter, had to promise to indulge themselves responsibly, so as not to ruin their appetite before mealtime).

Pixie was of big help, not only did she spare them the effort of cleaning the house and decorating it, but she also turned out to be quite good at cooking. By now Peter got used to ‘Try this!’, ‘Want a piece of that?’ and ‘Does it need more salt, what do you think?’, though he had to admit that most of the stuff tasted quite good. His mom was beside herself, and used every opportunity to remind Peter, what an ‘amazing’ girl he found.

With things in the house largely taken care of, Peter’s dad decided to finally move the TV antenna to a better position, so he enlisted Peter’s help as well. After quickly changing channels as soon as he digested the psycho-snowman news report, he went to the balcony.

“It’s perfect!” he shouted.

“All the channels?” he heard a muffled voice of his dad from the roof.

“Yeah!”

“Well, come up here quickly then, I need someone to hold it while I fix it in place,” his dad urged.

Peter ran out of the apartment and went up the stairs until he reached a trapdoor to the roof. The roof was just a concrete platform with built-in drains for the bad weather; at the edges it had basic cinder bricks barrier to prevent things or people from accidently falling off the roof, with a hole on the side facing the neighboring apartment building.

“Here, hold it like this,” Peter’s father said, as Peter approached and ducked under his arms to get a hold of the antenna carefully. The man made a few careful steps around Peter, and went to get the toolbox. Peter used this chance to look at the surroundings. The view was magnificent – the winter sun decided to appease the people by showing itself in all its glory on this day, and Peter couldn’t help but smile. The snow glistened and reflected the sunlight, while the cold winter air felt especially fresh in the presence of the sun. Looking around, he also saw something weird on the roof of the nearby building.

“You noticed it too?” his dad said, coming closer to him with a heavy toolbox, and picking out the necessary tools.

“It’s like they have a yellow lantern there…” Peter squinted at the strange light, trying to understand where it’s coming from.

“Uh-huh. And you know what’s even weirder? That they lost the key to the roof trapdoor,” his dad explained, and pointed at the hole in the barrier, a few long wooden boards scattered around and covered with snow, “See the hole in the fence there? Last time they needed roof access, they simply used those boards to make a bridge from our roof here; dangerous stuff,” he muttered under his breath, “One guy nearly fell from it.”

“Well, maybe they found a key?” Peter guessed.

“William asked me to look, if everything is alright on their roof today,” the father shook his head, “If they had found it, he wouldn’t have to - he could come up and see for himself.”

A thought started to form in Peter’s head, but it was just one step away from a wild guess, and so he forgot about it for a time, at least until he had a chance to learn more.

“My guess is,” his dad continued, “They had a small light up there installed for convenience. I bet there’s a switch somewhere in the house stuck in ‘on’ position, and everybody just forgot about it.”

“Yeah,” Peter nodded, while still looking at the yellow light. Somehow, to his eyes, it still looked unnatural.

#

“No, don’t put it on the Christmas tree!” Peter protested, as Pixie was about to hang the mistletoe on it.

“Why not?” she queried.

“It will look out of place,” he sighed, “Look, just hang it somewhere else if you must.”

“Over the doorway to your room?” she said and grinned.

“Fine,” he waved a hand, and went to the kitchen. When he came back, the mistletoe was hanging in its place already and Pixie was standing in the middle of the room, her hands behind her back with a happy (if slightly constipated) expression on her face.

“Now what?” Peter asked, and squinting at her side added, “What have you got there?”

“These are, well... for your parents,” she spilled the beans after giving him a few pleading looks, “I just don’t feel comfortable presenting them.”

“You?” Peter couldn’t believe his ears, “Don’t feel comfortable?”

“Well,” she tried to think of a witty reply, but slouched instead, “Will you help me?”

“Show me what you got,” he said graciously.

“Well, this is for your dad,” she handed him a small wooden box. Peter opened it to look at almost new, quite vintage-looking wristwatch; small shiny bits lined the clock face – Peter guessed that these were probably diamonds.

“You gotta be kiddin’ me…” he looked at her with disbelief, “This must’ve cost a fortune, if it’s real…”

“It’s an artifact, of course it’s precious,” Pixie explained, “It’s The Clock of Lucky Hour, it protects the wearer against bad luck, whatever the source. And if it is possible, the wearer tends to win every contest somehow associated with beer.”

“Are these diamonds?” Peter pointed at the clock face.

“I’m pretty sure they are…” she looked and shrugged.

“Yeah, well, it will be hard to present my dad with a gift that’s probably worth more than everything we have…” he sighed, “Okay, what’s the other thing?”

“Well…” she brought the other hand from behind her back, only to bring a quite big decorated oyster shell.

“And this is … ?” Peter ventured, trying to puzzle out the meaning.

“Open it,” she urged.

Peter took the seashell carefully and opened it, only to reveal two plain pearl earrings. If quite big shiny pearls could be called ‘plain’, that is.

“Let me guess, these are magic too?” he guessed.

“Yes, these are called ‘Foam of the Waves’,” she explained, “But due to their nature, they work only near the sea or ocean. Their owner’s ship will always miraculously avoid storms and bad weather. They also make people immune to seasickness.” She paused, and continued, “I thought they would be nice, if your mom ever wants to go on a cruise. Nothing ruins the holiday mood like a seastorm, let me tell you.”

“Yeah, now we have to invent a story about your parents being billionaires…” Peter sighed again, “More lies.”

“Maybe we should say that I’m a rich orphan then?” she offered.

“Oh well, might as well do it fast,” he said, and took her by the hand. She gave him a look, amusement mixed with curiosity, but didn’t take her hand away, but Peter explained, “We didn’t break up yet, remember? Let’s go…” He stopped momentarily to pick up his gifts as well, and reasoned, “Come to think of it, why do it separately?” Pixie shrugged, and they entered the kitchen together.

“… and there I was, looking at them, when Harold said ‘Does reindeer sleigh match the specifications of an armored transport?’” Peter’s father paused to laugh owlishly, while his wife chuckled quietly under her nose.

“Eh, mom, dad?” Peter called out, and they looked up. His dad’s expression changed to more serious one, when he saw young people holding their hands together like that.

“Yes dear?” his mom said, her smile everpresent, but eyes giving away that she noticed it too.

“We got you our own Christmas presents,” Peter managed. Now that he came into the room and saw their faces, it suddenly became a lot harder to voice what was on his mind. So he went for the ‘solid ground’ – the truth, or in this case – some part of it. “Beatrice told me she was a little shy to present her gifts alone, so I thought it would be better if we did it together,” he continued.

“I’m very happy you allowed me to celebrate Christmas in your family,” Pixie put in, “I feel at home here, and I’m very grateful for it.” She paused and added, blushing, “And for your son too.”

“Smile now, kill demons later,” Peter thought, while trying to come up with something clever to say.

“It’s been a pleasure, dear,” Peter’s mom gave her widest smile, and his dad nodded in agreement, and smiled too.

“Well, let’s see it then,” the father waved a hand at the awkward younglings.

“My gifts are nothing special compared to what Beatrice got for you,” Peter stepped forward, “This is for you mom. I didn’t really know what to buy, so I thought this little thing will remind you about this Christmas.” He handed her the little likeness of a house, and she brought it closer to her face, looking at all the little details in astonishment. In the meantime Peter produced an expensive-looking pen in a posh box with transparent lid, and handed it to his father, “This is for you dad. So you can sign documents and forms with style.”

His smile widened, “Thank you, Peter.” He nudged his wife lightly on the shoulder, who apparently became lost in thoughts, while looking at her present.

“Oh?” she roused, and remembered herself, “Thank you very much, Peter, it’s very nice!”

“Wait till you see this,” Peter snorted, and pulled Pixie to the front, “Show them.”

Pixie let go of his hand, and brought her presents to the front, dealing them out to their respective recipients. Peter’s mom raised an eyebrow at the seashell, while his dad reached for a wooden box. He gasped, “But that’s… Hamilton! Either a very good replica or…” He noticed the diamonds, and whispered, “Sam, it can’t be…” But his wife wasn’t paying attention, having opened the seashell, and put a hand to her mouth.

“Beatrice forgot to mention that she’s from a very rich family,” he looked Pixie in the eyes meaningfully, stressing each word, “I myself only learned about it today.”

An awkward silence descended.

“I guess we’ll go now,” Peter tried and made for the door, trying to take Pixie with him.

“Stop right there, young people!” his dad bellowed, still holding the box in his hands. They turned to face him.

“Explain all this,” his dad took off his glasses and looked at them expectantly. Surprising Peter, Pixie stepped forward and said, “Sir, Peter told the truth. I’m from a rich family, so I don’t have a habit of looking at price tags, especially if I’m getting a present for someone special.”

“But-” Peter’s father started to say something, when his wife put a hand on his shoulder.

“Steven, what are you supposed to say when given a most exquisite gift?” she purred in his ear.

“Eh… Thank you very much,” he seemed to deflate with each word.

“There we go,” Peter’s mom smiled cheerfully at the assemblage, “I must say, you really knocked the wind out of us with this, but we are most grateful for the presents, you can be sure of that!”

Pixie and Peter both smiled, and slowly slid out of the room. They could hear a lively murmur of talk in the kitchen, and they could pretty much guess what it was about. And then they found each other.

“You!” she hissed at Peter, “You made it all only worse! And if I didn’t cut in, they would…”

“You!” Peter tried to shout, but couldn’t quite do it while whispering, “What was that about ‘grateful for your son’? You spoke as if we’re getting married or something! Now we’re not breaking up, it will be a divorce-scale event!”

“But you didn’t want to break up!” she countered.

“I didn’t want you to disappear from my life, that’s not the same!” Peter said.

“That’s why you broke up with me for real?!” Pixie blurted, and put hand to her mouth too late.

“You said you were okay with it,” he recounted quietly.

“When will you learn to look between the lines?” she complained.

“I can’t read minds like you do!” he parried.

“Oh, you’re a lost cause,” she said spitefully, and turned up her nose, “That’s it, I’m not talking to you anymore!”

“Thank God!” Peter rushed out of the room and slammed the door. Pixie looked at it venomously. He was supposed to be at her feet and beg her to forgive him, and she would, after a few compliments at least. But this stubborn… wombat!

She went to his room, sat on the floor and started to read her book furiously. At least they had a deal about Christmas, and she wasn’t about to give up on a good meal. If only to make things worse for him…

Pixie grinned. He cares about appearances so much, does he?

She didn’t have to wait long. The door opened a crack, and Peter’s mom’s head appeared.

“Beatrice, dear, have you seen Peter?”

Pixie raised her head from the book she was reading, and trying hard not to grin, proceeded with her plan.

“We had a small argument over a trivial matter, he freaked out and ran outside, slamming the door behind him,” she said, as she put on her most worried expression, and added with a bit of artistic ring to her voice, “So I’m just waiting here for him, to apologize first, after all, people are what matters…”

“You know what,” Peter’s mom shook her head at Pixie in wonder, “I’ll talk to him when he gets back.”

Pixie still looked sad, but deep inside she congratulated herself with the first victory. It was so easy!

#

“You!” the bellow came from behind the door, and Peter stormed in, not even bothering to take his coat off. Pixie pretended to hear nothing, and turned the page of the book.

“You want war?” he exclaimed furiously.

She didn’t even dignify him with a response, and clicked her fingers. As a wave running through the air, a thin barrier appeared between them, with Pixie’s half of the room filled with pleasant music and completely soundproof against Peter’s. With a corner of her eye, she saw him saying something, akin to a fish in aquarium. She smiled innocently and nodded. He continued talking, obviously thinking that she can hear him. Her gaze inevitably wandered back to the book she was reading, and only then he suspected something.

“You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?” Peter inquired stepping through the magic wall between them. She just swayed her head to the rhythm of the music. Seeing no reaction, he came closer and grabbing Pixie by the wrists, pulled her up to face him.

“Changeabout,” she dropped, and tried to slip away from him, but he held her tight, and she whispered, “Let go. Or it will be worse.”

“Like what?” he said spitefully.

A sharp punch at his back made him turn around. She was standing behind him, looking like a demon again, while what he held in his hands somehow dissolved first into a dust apparition, and then into nothing but a mirage, a simple trick of light.

“Don’t forget, that although you are immune to magic,” she told him, looking at her fingernails, “I can still kick your ass physically, using it only to evade you.”

He looked at her, smoldering with anger. Then, apparently realizing, that he would accomplish nothing by force, he ventured, “What are your conditions?”

“Keep your end of the deal about Christmas dinner,” she said, still not looking at him, “I promise not to cause any more trouble, and I will leave you alone afterwards.”

“I didn’t want that,” he confessed, “How did we end up fighting all of a sudden?”

Pixie didn’t reply, and sat down, reading her book again, but the music was gone from the air.

“You’re mad at me?” he asked, coming closer.

“To put it lightly…” she murmured after a long pause.

“Well, I’m sorry,” Peter said, surprising even himself.

“Yeah?!” she cried and slammed the book shut, “You ruin everything, even holiday mood, and then you say ‘I’m sorry’ and everything gets fixed magically? Is that it?”

“No,” he replied in a dull voice, “It just had to be said, that’s all.”

“Don’t worry,” she commented, “I won’t embarrass you in front of your parents.” She thought a little and added, “Damn it, when will this day end finally?”

#

The dinner went quite smoothly and without any special events; although Peter had to admit, that food tasted exceptionally good, Pixie’s millennia of experience contributing immensely to it. His parents definitely liked her a lot, but she was reserved and picked words quite carefully for each phrase; they even managed to exchange a few fake smiles, just so that tension between them seemed less noticeable. No one commented on it, either assuming everything was alright or having basic human decency to let the parties involved sort it out themselves.

Whatever the case, at some point they retreated to Peter’s room; again, his parents had enough sense not to raise the question of where Pixie (to them - Beatrice) was going to sleep; however, Peter’s mom quietly inquired of him, if his second set of bedding was missing anything.

“I think I’m gonna go now…” Pixie said.

“And what if they decide to check on us?” Peter asked.

She waved a hand, “I can leave a dummy illusion, just ignore it.” She found he caught her hand and held it gently.

She abruptly half-turned to face him and twisted his arm so as his bent upper body met with her protruded knee. Then she heavily dropped her fist on the back of his head to switch the light off. His limp body fell on the floor with a thump.

The demoness then stuffed the unconscious body in the wooden chest equipped with all sorts of sophisticated devices to keep human alive for many years to come. Then she created Peter's clone and came up with a plan to get rid of it in an unfortunate car accident (or something similar) in the near future.

Pixie was on her way to a sunny beach with Peter's body safely packed to reduce the itch, when her train of thoughts was interrupted by him squeezing her palm a little harder…

“I… I don’t really want you to leave,” he stammered.

“Oh, stop it,” she took her hand from him, but this time he didn’t try to hold on to it.

“Will you stay?” Peter said. She turned her head to look at him, and held his stare for quite a long time.

“Fine,” she replied, and sat on the floor, her book appearing out of nowhere to land by her knees.

“What are you reading anyways?” he inquired, sitting down on the bed.

“This is a wishbook,” she explained without much emotion, “It can be any book you wish.”

“That’s not what I asked,” he reminded.

“Well, currently I’m reading Oscar Wilde, if you must know,” Pixie answered, turning a page.

The conversation died again.

“Are you’re going to sleep?” Peter queried, yawning.

“A little later, I’ll think of some illusion to keep if someone enters the room,” she replied, never tearing her gaze from the wishbook. Peter changed to his pajamas and crawled under the blankets.

“Pixie,” he called out.

“What?” the demoness responded.

“Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Peter,” she replied in a tired voice, and Peter turned off the light.

#

“Pixie?” she heard Peter’s urgent whisper.

“Wha?” she asked, without opening her eyes.

“Can you hear that?”

She listened. A faint sound of a footstep, a very quiet one, in the living room.

“Oh, okay,” she turned to the other side and prepared to continue sleeping.

“You’re just gonna lay there when there’s a stranger in the house?” Peter almost jumped off the bed and grabbed the phone, “I’d better call the police…”

“Idio-o-o-o-ot-t,” Pixie yawned while saying her favorite phrase, and opened her eyes, “You forgot what day it was?”

“You don’t mean to say it’s…?” he let the question hang in the air.

“Him, yes,” she nodded, “Might as well go back to sleep, it’s not like I’m getting anything.”

“Why not?” he queried, putting the phone back on the cupboard.

“Well, even if there were demons on the list,” Pixie desperately yawned again, “Do you think we’d end up in the ‘nice’ section?” She humphed, and closed her eyes.

“But I thought he didn’t exist…” Peter started.

“For most people he does not,” she explained slowly, and shifted inside her blanket to a more comfortable position, “But you’re not ‘most people’, for better or worse…”

He let the remark pass, instead asking quietly, “Demonic Kiss?”

“Uh-huh,” she muttered in response.

Not wanting to let such an opportunity go by, Peter decided to take a look at the man. And there he was, black leather boots and belt, red pants and coat cuffed with white velour-like material. He was busy unloading a lot of boxes, some of them quite large, from a red sack, when he saw Peter entering the room and froze still. Peter forced his gaze away from the man and went in the direction of kitchen. Santa relaxed and proceeded with his task.

“Want one?” he almost jumped out of his boots, when Peter appeared behind him, offering him a can of soda.

“You… can see me?” Santa Claus asked in a quite pleasant baritone, “Oh, you must be Peter then.” The man turned to face him. He looked almost the same as he appeared in media, white beard, slightly upturned red nose and a pair of eyes - like a duo of black bugs, which seemed to know everything about everyone. He accepted the offered can of soda with gratitude, commenting, “That’s a welcome change from milk and cookies, thank you!”

“Don’t tell me you memorize the list,” Peter said, as he sat down on the nearby chair, “And that’s how you know me.”

“Of course not,” the man replied, taking a generous swig from a can, “You’re the mysterious new guy from ‘The Crowbar’, aren’t you?”

“Oh,” Peter didn’t think that his brief visit to the place could have such impact, “I think I am…”

“Then I think, in addition to these,” Santa lightly kicked at the closest of boxes he was busy unloading before and rummaged in the pockets of his coat, “Wait, where was it...” He finally found what he was looking for in the inner pocket of his coat. It turned out to be a yellow paper envelope roughly the size of half the typical album page, which he offered to Peter without much aplomb.

“Seb asked me to deliver this to you,” Santa said.

“Er, thanks I guess. But what’s in the boxes, Mr. Santa Claus?” Peter asked and accepted the envelope, but decided to open it later.

“Just Nick, please,” he waved his hand at a mention of his name, and smiled apologetically, yet with a cunning look in his eyes, “If I divulge that, it will spoil the surprise I’m afraid. But,” he raised the index finger of right hand, fished out first a pair of round golden spectacles (which he immediately put on) and second a huge paper scroll from his pocket with his other hand, and continued in much more official tone, “Peter Talley! It gives me great pleasure, to inform you that you are on my ‘nice’ list.”

“How quaint, humph,” came a sarcastic remark from the door to Peter’s room, and both men turned their heads to look at the red-skinned figure clad in baggy pajamas standing there.

“You wanted to sleep, didn’t you?” Peter inquired.

“How can I sleep when you lot are making so much noise?” Pixie retorted, “Be thankful I made your parent’s rooms soundproof. They can’t hear the phantom,” she nodded at Santa, “But they most certainly can hear you.”«I believe,” Santa interceded, “You are the reason this young man can see me?”

“So nice of you to notice,” she said with a fake smile and rolled her eyes, “That I’m a demon.”

“What did you call Santa?” Peter snatched at the word.

“A phantom,” Nick said dryly, stuffing the list back into his pocket.

“Because that’s what he is,” the demoness put in, “An egregore.”

“Egre-what?” Peter asked looking from one to the other.

“You tell him or I will?” Pixie raised an eyebrow at Santa.

“I’m an egregore, thank you very much,” he addressed the last bit to Pixie, who bowed theatrically. He then turned to Peter, and continued, “It all starts with people believing. Then all it takes is a simple spell, and focused belief becomes reality. Unlike tulpas however, I have power over belief in same way it has power over me. That is,” he allowed himself a careful smile, “I can write my own story.”

“But essentially, he’s still just a phantom,” Pixie interjected, “When people stop thinking about him, he will disappear.”

“Same can be said about a lot of things,” Peter commented, “Basic decency, for instance.”

“Good point,” Santa gave Peter a thumbs-up.

“Oh, why bother,” Pixie sighed, and went back to Peter’s room without even a backwards glance.

“A lot of fire in that one,” Santa commented, taking his spectacles off and wiping them with a small red piece of cloth he produced from his back pocket.

“Sorry Nick, usually she’s not so toxic,” Peter said.

“Ah, I know,” Santa replied as he hid his spectacles and small piece of cloth back into his pocket, “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“What?” Peter asked in confusion.

“Well, you see,” he sat down but instead of continuing, asked, “Could you perhaps bring me another can of soda?”

“Sure,” Peter ran to the kitchen and was back instantly with two more cans.

“Thank you, I love the stuff, don’t know why. Now, as I was about to say,” Santa said, opening the one and drinking greedily, “You almost made it to the list of ‘naughty’, and quite recently I might add. Does it ring a bell?”

“You mean her?” Peter furrowed his brows.

“Maybe,” Santa ventured with a cunning, but not unkind, smile, “Love, young man, is basically the same thing I’m doing here. It is about giving. It is not a bad thing,” he stopped smiling and looked at Peter seriously, “Even if you’re still grieving inside after a loss of a dear friend.”

“You know… about it?” Peter stammered, not quite sure what to think.

“Of course I do,” Santa replied, “A certain name disappears from all the lists long before it should?” Peter wanted to say something, but Santa Claus raised his hand to silence him. “Listen, take my advice, even if I am nothing but a phantom, an illusion,” he smiled with that special smile people all around the world knew all too well, “Treasure the memories, instead of mourning the loss.” He picked up the empty sack, and made for the balcony door.

“Nick, wait!” Peter called after him, “Didn’t you bring anything for Pixie? Can you check if there’s something for her?”

Santa stopped, and looked at Peter; he wasn’t smiling, but sparks danced in his eyes behind the round golden spectacles, and said with a wink, “I think it’s up to you, to get the little demon a present this Christmas. Maybe next one…”

He turned away and opened the balcony door. He breathed heavily while clambering over the railing, and jumped into the reindeer sleigh, waiting right under it.

“What took you so long? Don’t tell me you actually stopped to drink milk with cookies, did you?” a shrill voice questioned him; Peter couldn’t really see the speaker behind the Santa’s bulk, as the red-suited man tried with limited success to move from a back seat to the front one.

Once he finally took his place, he put on the mittens (of same color as his suit), grabbed the reins with one hand, and waved a goodbye to Peter with the other.

“Goodbye, Peter Talley!” he exclaimed, trying to make his voice sound powerful and official, “Behave well and we’ll see each other next Christmas again!” He signaled the reindeer and the sleigh moved – dove down in a manner similar to a plane, only to regain its height in a few moments later.

“Ho-ho-ho! Merry Christmas!” Peter heard the trademark phrase echoing in the night.  He shook his head, and wondered if the elf and the reindeer sleigh were also ‘phantoms’. It didn’t matter to him; he slowly came to the idea of accepting some things for what they were, not what they were supposed to be. And just like Nick said, some of them weren’t ‘bad’…

He went back to the room, shutting the balcony door behind him and gave the boxes Santa had brought in a suspicious stare. You were supposed to get a gift if you were on the ‘nice’ list, but there were just too many of them. He still held the envelope from Seb in his hands, and he decided to open it first.

Inside seemed to be a thin piece of paper covered in uneven writing, and a thin stack of cards; he decided to read the former, while placing the latter on the table in the living room. Seb certainly wasn’t terribly good with a pen – the lettering (possibly written with the one of those ball pens Peter had given him at his last and only trip to the Crossroads) was terrible. Each letter was of a different size and some of them left a feeling as if they wanted to leave their compatriots and fly in some other direction. It read:

“Peter! I hope you get this letter eventually (Saint Nick isn’t the most reliable person, but he’s my only option short of coming to deliver this myself, and I don’t fancy leaving the bar unattended).

Your visit to the Crossroads caused quite a stir, and some of the other patrons didn’t believe me or Barry, and Nira’s account of the events was a little sketchy (to put it lightly); but you are quite a popular subject of discussion in some circles now – I don’t mean anything by this, just thought that letting you know was the right thing to do.

Accept my most sincere condolences – I heard what happened. I would’ve never given you the cursed ink, had I known how it would end. I blame myself for it; again, I’m terribly sorry. If it’s any consolation, I’ll try to make up for it – with this letter too.

I hope you’ll find a small present enclosed to your satisfaction. As you are new to our world, you probably don’t know what it is. It is a six-card set of clairvoyant cards imprinted to your soul – it means to anyone else these look like simple greeting cards, but only in your hands will their power truly unfold; and no, they don’t predict future.

Clairvoyant cards act as mystery detector – if there’s an important secret or detail you missed with whatever you were doing in your life, they will try to show you what you missed using your own memories. The more cards in the set, the more precise they can be; six is average-to-good precision, and I’m guessing that even knowing that you missed something will help. If there are no more mysteries to solve for now, the cards will go blank.

Don’t forget, that you can always count on a friendly advice and horrible drinks (yes, I know they are) at the Crossroads; we are eagerly awaiting your return! The CrowBar is not closing any time soon!

Signed below, present at the moment of composing the letter: Sebastian (me), Barthokoloss, Nira, Felinite, Santa Claus and Midnight.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!”

Peter smiled at the letter. It felt nice – being remembered, even if all he did was ask for their help; he wondered, who were those other people, Felinite and Midnight, who signed the letter along with everyone else.

He turned his attention to the stack of clairvoyant cards. They were tied together by a thin white ribbon, the top card lying face down, so that he wouldn’t look at it accidently. Peter untied the ribbon and looked at the card.

To his vast surprise, it wasn’t blank. It showed Pixie… The human form she had when he first saw her after arriving in the past. And she looked on the verge of crying… He remembered! Moments ago he slapped her for throwing him back in time. But why would the card show him that?

The second card wasn’t better in that regard – it featured him on the balcony and her on the neighboring one. Pixie looked happy with a paper bag in her hands, and he looked dreamily at the horizon. Without thinking, Peter reached for the next card.

The third card had a picture of the little demon in almost full height, smiling happily. He remembered the moment as well – he just got back from the Crossroads, agreed to a fresh start and allowed her to stay. Peter even remembered what he was thinking back then – it was the first time he saw her happy…

The fourth card. Him, his face wrecked with sorrow, on her knees; a tear frozen on the tip of her nose. He just got back from the hospital, and she told him about… what happened. He reached for the fifth card if only to stop looking at that one.

That was a more recent one. Pixie again, in her pajamas, sitting on top of him. He remembered that she was angry, but somehow her expression looked more playful than anything else…

The last card. Them, together on the beach, their lips locked in a kiss.

He sighed, and put the cards on the table. What did he miss here? Well, one element was the same through all the cards – Pixie. Sad, happy, happy, sad again, playful and… in love? He couldn’t quite place all of it together, unless the cards were trying to tell him that…

Really? Something as obvious and simple as that? From day one, she was there; she hoped to have a good time; she tried to be around and make the experiences better for both of them, but he didn’t want her company. She was happy when he shared a meal with her, and when he allowed her to stay in his room. Pixie didn’t leave him, and tried to soften the blow the life dealt him with Mary… And now, when perhaps she needed a little bit of warmth in return, he pushed her away. Small wonder Santa was telling him about giving. What kind of person was he, Peter, if he couldn’t find something good in his heart for her, not a demon, but a friend and… a girl, even more - a girlfriend?

At that thought, the image on the top card vanished, a blank white surface where a second ago was a picture of Pixie. The cards did their job – he understood the message. The question was - what to do with it. Could he still fix things? Would cards show him a useless piece of information? Well, he could try. He thought about calling her, but then came up with a better idea.

“Pixie,” he thought. “Pixie!” he thought harder. “P-i-x-i-e!” he tried to think as hard he could, shutting his eyes tight, almost screaming it inside his mind.

“I’m trying to sleep!..” a red-skinned figure appeared in the doorway, stretching her back, “What do you want now?”

Instead of replying, he came closer and looked her in the eyes. Even now, sleepy-eyed, her eyes were simply wonderful – entrancing and magic; her face beautiful as it was, but those eyes each were like a miniature universe… She took a step back.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she queried, slightly alarmed at his behavior.

Peter closed his eyes and said it finally, “I am sorry. For everything. I understand I don’t have any right for any feelings you might have or had for me, but maybe you could forget that we broke up?” He gulped and sighed, slacking visibly.

That woke her up better than a cold shower. Her eyes widened, the last bit of sleepiness disappearing from them, her mouth opened involuntarily and she put her hand to it. She then quickly recovered her other faculties, and looked at him smugly.

“You want me to forgive you?” she reiterated, reaching with the index finger of her right hand to his chin, and lifting his head to an eye-level with her, “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

Peter thought for a very short time and nodded.

“Idiot,” she replied, “If I didn’t put a spell on you just a second ago, you’d go to Hell, and our contract would be over.”

She came closer, her eyes burning with… what?

“Let’s start then…” she murmured. In a flash, she slapped him hard on the cheek - his head exploded with stars before his eyes and ringing in his ears, but he somehow still managed to hear what she said next, “This is for treating me like a dog all this time!”

“Fair enough,” he breathed in reply, clutching at the door frame for support.

She came closer to him, gently took him by the shoulder with one hand and punched him in the guts with the other. “That is for entertaining my advances only to break up with me in a day!” she exclaimed, as she paced a few feet behind him.

He didn’t expect his, and she knocked the wind out of him; he bent over his belly, but still kept standing there, stoically enduring everything she had for him, not turning after her.

“And this little bit,” she almost shouted now, and kicked at his right calf from behind, “For being an egoistic asshole in face of it all!”

The pain was exceptional, and he barely kept himself from clutching at the bruised limb, as she grabbed him by the neck with one hand and by the shoulder with the other, a thought racing to his head, “Is she gonna twist my head off now? Well, I deserved it, so…”

“And this,” she turned him to face her and he braced himself inwardly, “Is for apologizing...” The blow never came; instead, she brought her lips closer and kissed him like she never did before – completely leaning on him for support, while her hand gently stroked the hair on the back of his head.

He instantly forgot all about his ‘wounds’, only noticing perhaps, that in addition to a trace ringing in his ears he also heard his heartbeat. Or was it hers?..

 It is fair to say at this point, that they both wished for the moment to last forever, but Pixie broke the kiss, somehow managing to combine power and shyness in her smile, as she declared in a whisper, “Consider yourself forgiven.”

“Thank you,” he replied quietly, as they stood up, but still embracing each other.

“I can’t help but wonder,” she mused aloud, playfully stroking his hair, “Was it something the phantom said that made you do this?”

“Him too,” Peter waved a hand, “But I thought long and hard. Remembered things.”

“What do you mean?” she inquired further, lightly kissing his neck.

“You were there for me all the time, when I needed you,” he carefully reached for her cheek, if only to stop her from doing what she was doing, “And I think you fell in love with me long before I did with you.”

She avoided his gaze, looking slightly childish, considering that they still were clutching at each other.

“What makes you think that?” she said, her voice trembling.

“Because you stayed even despite me acting like a complete douche,” he replied, “And you didn’t ruin the holiday, but I bet you wanted to.”

Pixie finally looked him in the eyes.

“Well, if you are so sure about it,” she said, trying to sound casual, “What are you going to do about it?”

“Loving – is giving, at least that’s what Santa told me,” Peter told her, “I only hope I can muster equivalent affection… Speaking of giving, I got you something.”

Her eyes, wistful and a little sad, lit with joy.

“It’s not a figurine of elephant, is it?” she enthused, as Peter went to carefully extract her present from the fold of his coat hanging in the wardrobe by the door.

“I thought you might like it, you seem to have a thing for everything black,” he said, as he offered her the object in question. It was a notebook with its cover made out of black leather, but the golden (more likely, brass) letters stated it was a ‘My Diary’.

“I’ve never had a diary before,” he eyes seemed to glow as she accepted it and riffled through the empty pages.

“Do you like it?” Peter inquired.

“You bet,” she gave him a hug, whispering into his ear, “Thank you...”

“You’re welcome,” he said, gently pressing her to his chest. She withdrew from him, gave him a cunning look and blew on her palm, clenched it into a fist, only to open it a second later to reveal a strange, half-transparent orange crystal, it’s shape vaguely reminiscent of a wheat grain, but as big as Peter’s phone. And it shined, nay, glowed with bright yellow inner light; a tiny splinter of the sun on her palm.

“This is for you,” Pixie offered him the weird object, and he took it; it was warm, light and very smooth, not a burr or a flaw anywhere.

“What is it?” he looked at the thing in wonder.

“Hellfire crystal,” Pixie replied, taking a step back, “Watch this.”

As she took a step back, the light became weaker. She took a few more, and the inner glow inside the crystal was almost gone.

“It indicates the presence of demons?” he tried to guess, but Pixie shook her head and came back to stand beside him, the light inside the crystal shining bright as ever again.

“Magic,” she explained, “These crystals are pretty common in Hell, as the fires lit for sinners by sinners melt even the toughest rocks, and the little bits of soul essence escaping and accumulating over millennia create these glass-like formations.”

“But didn’t you say you couldn’t go back?” Peter raised an eyebrow.

“I can’t, so I asked a friend to bring me some,” she simpered, and continued, “Then all I had to do – was to cut it.”

“So it glows in presence of magic?” he clarified.

“Well, here – yes,” she responded, gently tracing some unseen lines on his shoulder with her fingers, “But in Hell they glow all the time, quite a sight, come to think of it. I thought,” Pixie took his hand into her small one, “You could use a little toy, which would help you discern the real magic from plain trickery. And it glows in presence of artifacts as well,” she added.

“Wow, thank you,” he said, as he kept extending and withdrawing the arm holding the hellfire crystal, observing how the glow inside gradually changed in relation to the distance from Pixie, who was still looking at her new diary with fascination.

She suddenly startled and squeezed his hand urgently.

“As your girlfriend,” she said, trying to look him in the eyes, “I demand to know when your birthday was!”

“Oh, it’s easy really,” Peter smiled apologetically at her, “The only day we were not around my parents, who’d blow my cover.”

“You don’t mean to say…” she started but let the sentence trail off, her eyes gleaming.

“Yes, this year I spent my birthday on the island somewhere around the Pacific,” his smile widened to a grin, “The best birthday I ever had. And Pixie…”

“What?” she looked up at him, her eyes shining with delight.

“Merry Christmas, my little runaway,” he said with a shy smile.

“Merry Christmas, silly mortal,” she replied and pulled him in for a kiss.

**THE END**


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